THE  LIBHT,^ 
OUT  OF  C 
TH  E  EAST 

S.R.  CROCKETT 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


>7^Mx? 


Vtrv      /?  X~/^ 


THE  LIGHT 
OUT  OF  THE   EAST 

S    R.  CROCKETT 


THE    LIGHT 
OUT  OF  THE  EAST 


BY 

S.  R.   CROCKETT 

AUTHOR    OF    "the     STICKIT    MINISTER," 

"the  raiders,"  etc.,  etc. 


NEW  ^^tair  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1920. 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


CONTENTS  ' 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    His  Coming 9 

II    His  Mother 16 

HI    The  Word  with  Power  Dwelling  Among 

Us 26 

IV    Without  a  Parable  Spake  He  Not  Unto 

Them 35 

V    The  Empty  Chair  of  Peter 49 

VI    Sodom,  Gomorrah — and  Little  Zoar     .     .  59 

VII    "Not  Peace  but  a  Sword" 65 

VIII    The  Raw  Stuff  of  Miracle        ....  71 

IX    The  Road  of  the  Sea        79 

X    Murderess  and  Saint 86 

XI    The  Woman  and  Her  Man 100 

XII    The  Bier  and  the  Woman  Weeping      .      .  112 

XIII  Meshes  of  Golden  Hair 119 

XIV  The  Strong  Man  Leo 125 

XV    The  Red  Funnel  Liner 132 

XVI    The  Landing  at  Marseilles 141 

XVII    The  Gospel  for  France 149 

XVIII    What  Went  Ye  Out  for  to  See?     .     .     .  161 

XIX    Avatar 169 

V 


vi  CONTENTS 

CBAPTEB  FAQH 

XX    An  Act  of  War         175 

XXI    Under  the  Cross  op  Satot 186 

XXII    The  Pursuit 197 

XXIII  The  Conclave 203 

XXIV  The  Roman  Plebs 213 

XXV    The  Great  Disappearing 219 

XXVI    The  New  Palestine 223 

XXVII  The  Servants  of  "The  Servant"    ...  229 

XXVIII  The  Last  Martyr  of  the  Servant       ,     .  238 

XXIX    The  Cloud  Received  Him 247 


THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 


THE  LIGHT 
OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

CHAPTER  I:    HIS  COMING 

I,  Lucas  Cargill,  once  of  Cargillfield  in  Scot- 
land, the  unworthy  scion  of  a  good  house,  sometime 
not  wholly  unknown  as  a  London  journalist  and 
man  of  letters,  but  now  only  a  servant  of  the  Ser- 
vant, write  these  things. 

I  saw  him  first  (a  long  while  ago  as  it  seems) 
standing  on  the  mountain  Trastevera,  just  where 
Abruzzi  breaks  down  towards  the  green  plain  of 
Apulia.  Not  that  at  the  moment,  there  was  any 
green  thing  to  be  seen.  For  it  was  the  time  of  late 
September,  after  the  vintage,  and  all  Apulia  was 
sunbaked  and  cracked  like  the  mud  in  a  dry  reser- 
voir bottom. 

What  I  did  there  is  no  one's  business.  Indeed, 
when  I  come  to  think  of  it,  it  was  hardly  my  own. 
I  had  no  business.  God's  fiery  index-finger  had 
drawn  itself  across  my  life,  effacing  the  past,  sear- 
ing and  blistering  the  future.  To  this  followed  a 
long  blank,  dim,  wistful,  filled  with  alternate  numb- 
ness and  pain  as  of  a  gangrened  limb,  and  the 

9 


10         THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

strange  bewildered  anger  which  follows  a  great  mis- 
fortune falling  suddenly. 

The  mists  were  spinning  themselves  out  of  the 
lower  valley  as  from  a  rope-walk,  when  I  first  saw 
him  come  up  with  them  out  of  the  Unseen.  What 
impression  did  he  make  on  me  at  that  first  mo- 
ment? Many  ask  me  that  question.  I  can  hardly 
tell  now.  It  is  so  long  ago.  All  is  so  different. 
Now  I  know — I  live.  Then  I  was  dead  almost^ — 
physically — terribly,  pitiably  dead.  Not  that  I 
pitied  myself.  God  be  thanked,  I  was  at  least  saved 
from  that!  Nor  did  I  ask  any  other,  not  even  God, 
to  pity  me.  There  was  the  residue  of  something 
in  my  heart — something  high,  strong,  and  sufficient 
for  these  things.  Even  amid  the  swelter  of  destinies 
a  human  soul  may  keep  that,  and  regard  the  future 
not  afraid. 

At  first  I  thought  him  merely  one  of  the  dreams 
that  had  been  mocking  me  about  that  time — a  little 
clearer  than  usual,  perhaps,  better  defined.  But 
after  a  moment  I  saw  it  was  indeed  a  man. 

He  was  of  no  great  height,  clad  in  a  robe  of  some 
fine  white  stuff,  all  in  one  piece  from  his  neck  to 
his  feet.  I  took  him  for  a  priest  of  some  Order  I 
had  never  encountered.  Very  gentle  as  to  his  eyes 
— so  I  thought — his  face  like  soft  ivory,  with  few 
lines  and  a  look  of  youth  upon  it.  Yet  no  mantling 
blood  as  of  a  young  man,  no  ardours  of  life,  no 
square  strengths  of  sex  about  the  lips,  no  proud  out- 
look in  the  eyes — nothing  of  all  that. 

Yet  at  first  I  did  not  see  the  eyes.    They  were 


HIS  COMING  11 

turned  from  me.  He  was  gazing  up  towards  the 
mountain  summit  behind  me  to  the  right.  But  I 
marked  instead  his  dress,  and  vaguely  I  said  to 
myself  that  I  had  seen  something  like  it  somewhere 
in  a  picture.  But  I  could  not  recall  the  exactness 
of  it,  and  the  thing  troubled  me,  as  such  trifles  will. 

For  one  thing,  if  he  were  a  priest,  there  was  no 
rivulet  of  little  ball-shaped  buttons  cascading  down 
the  front  as  on  a  soutane.  All  was  plain-woven,  in 
one  piece  like  a  stocking.  I  think  it  must  have  been 
put  on  over  his  head.  The  skirts  were  wringing 
wet  with  the  valley  mist.  But  above  many  capes 
of  white  shed  the  drops  from  his  shoulders  to  the 
ground.  In  his  hand  he  held  a  shepherd's  staff  with 
a  curved  head  on  which  he  leaned  a  little  wearily. 

Save  for  a  white  skull-cap  his  head  was  bare,  his 
hair  still  mostly  black.  Youthful  hair  it  was,  silver- 
ing only  in  streaks.  He  held  his  head  high  and  the 
cap  prevented  me  from  seeing  whether  it  was  ton- 
sured or  not.  About  him  the  driving  valley  clouds 
blew  thinner,  fuming  away  into  lawny  nothingness 
on  the  higher  slopes. 

Presently  he  turned  and  saw  me.  He  did  not 
seem  in  any  way  surprised.  I  remember  his  eyes 
now.  They  were  bent  full  on  me.  They  were  not 
the  powerful  eyes  you  might  expect  in  a  great  man 
— gentle  rather,  and  drawing.  But  I  suppose  my 
nerves  were  upet  with  prolonged  insomnia,  for 
beneath  the  soft  gaze  which  I  seemed  to  underlie, 
the  soul  within  me  trembled  like  a  tuning  fork. 
They  were  grey-blue  eyes,  very  piercing  but  noways 


12         THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

sharp.  I  tried  to  turn  away  and  could  not.  Then 
all  at  once,  very  absurdly,  I  felt  a  rush  of  glad  im- 
pulsive confidence — I  had  not  the  least  idea  in  what. 
Perhaps  because  I  knew  somehow  that  this  stranger 
had  confidence  in  me,  and  God  knows  I  needed  that. 
Now  I  know  better.  Had  I  been  a  murderer  or  a 
bandit,  he  would  have  looked  just  the  same — and 
with  cause.  Don  Chiro  himself  would  not  have  with- 
stood the  childlike  assurance  of  this  man's  regard. 
The  murderers  of  the  Decisi  would  have  let  him  pass 
unscathed.  Besides  which,  there  was  nothing  about 
him  to  steal,  save  the  ivory  crucifix  which  swung  at 
his  neck,  reaching  as  low  on  its  iron  chain  as  the 
middle  of  his  breast. 

"My  brother,"  he  said,  holding  his  hand  towards 
me  with  a  strange  gesture  which  wa^  clearly  not  that 
of  hand-shaking,  "I  am  hungry — I  would  eat!" 

The  words  were  nothing.  One  shepherd  would 
have  said  them  to  another.  But  the  voice,  low, 
thrilling,  with  a  ring-ring  in  it,  as  of  a  bell  that 
quivers  long  after  it  has  been  struck — ah,  that  voice 
said  very  much  to  me.  From  that  moment  I  was 
no  longer  friendless,  outcast,  at  war  with  God  and 
men. 

"Brother,"  he  had  said,  "his  brother!" 

Then,  waking  hastily  from  my  dream,  I  turned 
to  the  little  shelter  of  stones  piled  like  a  beehive, 
after  the  fashion  of  the  country,  where  I  had  passed 
the  night.  There  I  had  left  a  wine-skin,  filled  with 
black  Sicilian  wine,  full  and  resinous,  tasting  of  the 
leather.     I  had  also  several  large  Spanish  onions, 


HIS  COMING  13 

which  I  had  boiled  the  night  before  in  goat's  milk. 
With  these  and  black  country  bread,  with  the  large 
flakes  of  maize  meal  gleaming  like  gold  in  it,  I  set 
out  a  repast.  The  man  took  no  farther  heed  of  me 
till  I  touched  him  on  the  arm.  It  seemed  somehow 
natural  that  he  should  ask  and  that  I  should  give. 
Altogether  I  was  strangely  happy — out  of  all  reason, 
indeed.  When  I  touched  his  arm  he  turned,  starting 
like  a  man  whose  mind  is  afar. 

"I  thank  you!"  he  said,  "tell  me  your  name, 
brother,  that  I  may  remember." 

I  told  him  and  again  his  eyes  looked  me  through. 
But  gently  and  with  a.  certain  gracious  and  draw- 
ing compassion.  I  would  have  asked  him  many 
things  in  return,  as  to  who  and  what  he  was.  But 
I  dared  not. 

He  held  up  his  hands  and  said  a  benediction  over 
the  poor  meal  spread  on  the  stone.  Then  sitting 
down  and  drawing  his  robe  half-way  to  his  knee,  he 
began  to  eat.  I  noted  that  he  wore  rough  sandals 
with  the  half-tanned  skin  inside,  which  were  fas- 
tened to  his  legs  with  thongs  crossed  and  recrossed 
as  high  as  I  could  see. 

"Lucas  Cargill,"  he  said,  looking  up  suddenly,  "I 
have  been  waiting  for  you,  Lucas.  We  will  go  far 
together.  This  is  but  the  beginning  of  many 
things." 

Then  his  eyes  wandered  from  me.  He  forgot  to 
eat,  and  it  seemed  quite  natural  that  I  should  remind 
him.    We  might  have  been  born  of  one  mother,  been 


14  THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

suckled  at  the  same  breast.  There  was  such  love 
between  us. 

Strange — and  that  very  morning,  but  an  hour 
ago,  I  had  thought  that  I  had  done  with  all  the 
race  of  men  and  women — aye,  and  had  had  a  certain 
pleasure  in  so  thinking.  He  took  my  reminder 
meekly,  as  if  he  had  been  well  accustomed  to  such 
kindly  recalling  hands.  He  ate  with  appetite  if  not 
with  relish,  but  drank  sparingly.  He  asked  for  water, 
which  I  poured  abundantly  from  my  earthen 
pitcher,  which  I  kept  wrapt  in  wet  rags  for  coolness. 
Curiously  he  held  his  palms  together,  hollowing 
them  out  in  the  centre  to  make  a  cup.  I  saw  how 
fine  and  white  his  hands  were,  the  hands  of  a 
scholar. 

His  eyes  wandered  again.  And  then,  as  if  speak- 
ing to  himself  the  thrilling  timbre  of  that  unfor- 
gettable voice  fell  on  my  ear.  He  was  looking  about 
him  with  a  tranced  expression. 

"Bread,  water,  wine,  friendship — the  earth  gifts — 
God's  best  creatures — what  need  I  more?" 

He  tossed  up  his  hands  with  a  light  graceful 
movement,  almost  like  the  instinctive  movement  of 
a  wild  animal.    He  seemed  to  take  in  the  universe. 

"The  good  wide  air,  the  mountain  side,  this  shelter 
of  stones,  this  kind  brother's  provender — the  sea 
yonder,  God's  curtain  hung  up  to  hide  what  is  await- 
ing beyond  it!  Alone — "  (he  seemed  to  continue 
a  previous  meditation)  "I  have  not  the  right  to  be 
alone.  I  must  work  the  work  I  came  to  do!  And 
this  stranger — ^he  shall  be  told — yes,  he  shall  hear. 


HIS  COMING  15 

But  to-morrow — not  to-day.  I  am  weary — greatly 
weary!" 

He  turned  to  me  where  I  stood  watching  his  face. 

"Lucas,"  he  said,  gently,  ''I  have  eaten  of  your 
meat.  For  that  I  give  you  God's  blessing.  Now  I 
would  sleep.  Go  without  and  watch.  There  are 
those  seeking  me  that  would  gladly  slay  me." 

He  drew  the  folded  rugs  under  his  head  and 
stretched  himself  on  the  straw.  I  was  going  out 
silently,  but  as  I  went  I  suppose  he  caught  a  wistful 
inquiry  on  my  face. 

"I  will  tell  you,"  he  said,  "men  call  me  the  Pope — 
the  White  Pope!" 

"What  Pope?"  I  faltered,  hardly  daring  to  con- 
fess my  suspicions  even  to  myself. 

"There  is  but  one  Pope,"  he  answered,  still  gently 
but  with  something  of  reproof.  "I  am  he  whom 
they  made  Pope  in  Rome.  They  crowned  me  yes- 
terday— or  was  it  the  day  before — or  last  week?  I 
forget.    I  am  weary.    Leave  me!" 

And  so  I  knew  that  I  had  to  do  with  a  madman, 
there  on  the  lonely  side  of  the  Trasteveran  moim- 
tain,  where  even  the  goatherds  seldom  come,  save 
once  or  twice  in  the  hottest  season  when  the  flocks 
range  highest. 

The  notion  of  flight  crossed  my  mind.  I  counted 
the  miles  to  the  nearest  town,  to  the  next  railway 
station.  But  somehow  I  could  not  flee.  The  man 
held  me — mad  or  sane,  he  held  me. 


CHAPTER  II:     HIS  MOTHER 

And  indeed  it  was  well  that  I  did  not  go  away. 

The  morning  became  high  noon.  The  sun  chang- 
ing to  a  white-hot  furnace  the  slippery  limestone 
of  the  rocks,  presently  drove  me  a  little  way  down 
hill  into  the  shade  of  a  group  of  stone  pines — scant 
shelter  enough,  but  better  than  the  prickly  pear  and 
tamarisk  of  the  upper  slopes,  in  a  nook  of  which 
my  little  semi-African  "gourbi"  had  been  estab- 
lished. 

Now  and  then  I  took  a  broad-leaved  flag  out  of 
the  little  puddle  which  was  all  that  remained  of 
the  spring  in  the  grove,  and  holding  it  above  my 
head  I  stole  up  to  see  if  the  poor  madman  still  slept. 

He  breathed  quietly,  his  head  pillowed  on  his 
hand,  and  his  white  robe  straight  about  him.  The 
shoulder-capes  had  been  removed  and  hung  on  one 
of  the  small  stone  projections  where  the  goatherds 
had  disposed  their  back-satchels  and  wine-skins. 

A  madman — yes,  surely!  But  there  was  nothing 
to  fear.  That  boy — he  was  little  more  for  all  his 
grey  head, — could  harm  no  one.  The  lips  a  little 
parted,  and  the  weary  smile  upon  them,  went  to  my 
heart. 

I  returned  again  down  the  hill  and  waited.  The 
insects  hummed  above,  but  from  their  stinging  I 

16 


.      HIS  MOTHER  17 

had  been  long  immune.  They  lulled  me,  however, 
and  the  heavy  afternoon  did  the  rest.  I  dozed.  I 
must  have  slept  some  hours  when  I  awoke  with  a 
start.  In  the  palm  grove  there  was  that  strange 
sense  of  an  unseen  human  presence.  Some  one  had 
been  leaning  over  me — watching  me.  I  felt  sure 
of  that. 

Nor  was  it  the  Man  in  White.  For  with  him. 
I  felt  no  sense  of  danger,  even  though  I  knew  him 
mad. 

I  looked  up  the  slope,  now  quivering  with  heat, 
in  the  direction  of  the  stone  beehive.  In  a  moment 
I  was  on  my  feet.  A  figure — a  woman,  stood  at  the 
low  door.  She  was  stooping,  and  seemed  about  to 
enter.  Bareheaded  I  tore  up  the  slope  before  I  had 
even  time  to  think.  I  laid  my  hand  on  the  woman's 
arm  and  turned  her  roughly  about.  For  his  words 
came  to  me,  that  there  were  those  seeking  him  who 
wished  to  slay  him.    It  might  be  this  woman. 

However  I  had  no  time  even  to  ask  a  question. 
For  the  woman  hastily  laid  her  finger  on  her  lip, 
and  nodded  in  the  direction  of  the  sleeper  within. 
He  had  not  moved.  I  could  see  the  straight  fold 
of  the  white  robe  cutting  the  cross-gartering  of  his 
sandals. 

The  stranger  moved  before  me  easily  and  lightly. 
She  was  an  aged  woman,  her  face  deep-lined  with 
care,  her  eyes  crow-footed  about  and  of  a  watery 
blue.  She  looked  mild  and  weary.  She  carried  no 
weapon  that  I  could  see. 

The  indigo  shadows  of  the  pine  glade  opened  out 


18         THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

to  let  us  in.  Then  I  stopped  and  asked  the  woman 
in  Itahan  what  she  did  there.  Never  was  surprise 
more  complete.  She  answered  me  in  English,  with 
only  a  little  insignificant  foreign  accent,  "I  am  his 
mother!" 

"Ah!" 

The  wonder  was  so  great  that  I  could  do  no  more 
than  utter  a  sharp  ejaculation. 

"Do  not  betray  me,"  she  said,  catching  me  sud- 
denly by  the  cuff  of  my  worn  tweed  suit,  and  looking 
up  in  my  face,  "he  has  forbidden  me!" 

"Forbidden  you  what?" 

"To  follow  him!"  she  murmured,  never  taking  her 
eyes  off  the  entrance  of  the  little  white  beehive 
shelter.  "Come  deeper  into  the  wood.  Here  he  will 
be  able  to  see  us!" 

"Has  he  escaped?"  I  said,  awkwardly  enough 
where  all  was  awkward. 

She  nodded  shortly,  and  looked  down  the  hill, 
now  clear  and  dazzling  in  the  broad  sun  of  after- 
noon. 

"When  did  he  escape  from  his — guardians?"  I 
asked.  I  meant  to  say  "keepers"  but  something  in 
the  mother's  face  stayed  me. 

"Ten  days  ago,"  she  said  slowly,  watching  the 
black  oblong  of  the  entrance  above.  "After  they 
were  gone — he  rose  and  went  out.  No  one  saw  him. 
But  then  I  always  knew  he  would.  So  I  was  ready 
to  follow!    He  could  not  escape  from  me." 

"Has  he  been  long — thus — in  this  condition?" 
i    The  words  came  out  stammeringly — awkwardly. 


HIS  MOTHER  19 

It  is  not  easy  to  speak  to  a  mother  of  the  delusions 
of  her  child.  She  gave  me  a  strange  long  look  like 
a  contemptuous  question. 

"You  think  he  is  mad,"  she  said,  with  a  little 
nervous  laugh,  "he  is  not  mad — my  son?" 

"But  he  said " 

"Well,"  said  the  woman,  planting  her  feet 
squarely,  and  folding  her  arms  high  across  her  breast 
with  a  gesture  almost  masculine,  "what  did  he  say?" 

"That  he  was  the  Pope— the  Pope  of  Rome!" 

I  spared  her  all  I  could,  and  the  pity,  I  feel  sure, 
showed  on  my  face. 

A  proud  triumphant  look  appeared  on  the 
woman's,  as  if  flushing  up  in  answei'  to  mine. 

"Well,"  she  said,  ''and  so  he  is!" 

So  on  that  Trasteveran  hillside,  with  the  sun 
going  down,  I  had  two  lunatics  on  my  hand — mother 
and  son. 

"I  will  tell  you,"  she  said  when  she  returned. 
(She  had  been  up  to  the  door  of  the  "gourbi"  to  see 
if  the  sleeper  had  moved.  He  was  sleeping  as  peace- 
fully as  ever).  "I  will  tell  you.  It  is  a  long  story, 
but  you  deserve  it." 

She  sat  down  on  a  tree  stump,  and,  lifting  a  chip 
of  pine-wood  from  her  feet,  played  nervously  with 
it,  tearing  off  little  fragments  and  biting  them. 

"I  am  not  mad,"  she  said,  smiling  at  me.  "He  is 
not  mad.  It  is  all  true.  He  has  been  novice,  priest, 
Master  of  the  Order  of  St.  Sepulchre,  cardinal,  and 
now  Pope.    All  is  true.    He  is  the  new  Pope.    They 


20  THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

chose  him  ten  days  ago,  after  many  votings.  I  was 
in  Rome  and  watched  the  smoke  go  up.  But  they 
chose  him  at  last.  Because,  they  said,  the  Powers 
would  not  agree.  It  was  a  matter  of  their  politics — 
Austria  and  France,  I  think.  I  do  not  understand. 
But  in  the  end  they  chose  my  son,  though  the 
youngest  of  the  cardinals,  to  be  Pope.  Why?  I  do 
not  know.  Because  he  has  a  great  renown  for  holi- 
ness and  can  do  wonders  with  his  preaching.  Aye, 
even  with  his  very  presence.  For  he  has  stood  in 
the  presence  of  the  Sultan — the  Turk  of  Constan- 
tinople, and  the  pagan  could  not  look  my  son  in 
the  eyes.  He  saved  the  lives  of  many — of  whole 
nations.  Even  those  who  were  of  the  Greek  heretics 
besought  him  to  speak  for  them.  And  he  did.  For 
he  cared  for  nothing  but  to  do  right,  to  make  all 
people  good  and  merciful  as  he  was  himself.  They 
call  him  the  'Light  out  of  the  East.'  " 

I  too  began  to  see  a  light,  but  yet  I  could  not 
believe.  It  seemed  a  thing  so  impossible.  But  still 
' — the  woman  certainly  talked  in  a  quiet  matter-of- 
fact  tone  which  was  very  convincing,  and  in  yonder 
rough  stone-shelter  lay  asleep  a  man  like  to  none 
I  had  ever  set  eyes  on  before. 

"And  are  you  indeed  his  mother?" 

It  was  perhaps  cruel  to  ask  the  question.  But 
somehow  I  could  not  reconcile  this  common  hard- 
featured  woman,  breathing  of  the  people,  with  the 
clear-lined  pale  face,  the  dignified  carriage,  the 
power  and  restraint  of  word,  and  the  wondrous  eyes 
I  had  seen  up  yonder. 


HIS  MOTHER  21 

At  my  words  the  woman  seemed  confused  for  the 
first  time.  The  clean  level  olive  of  her  cheek,  tanned 
with  the  eastern  sun,  the  wind  off  the  sea,  took  on 
something  (I  know  not  what)  of  subtle  difference. 
But  she  looked  me  boldly  in  the  face  notwith- 
standing. 

"Sir,"  she  said,  "I  am  not  his  own  mother,  but 
he  knows  no  other.  None  could  have  been  more 
his  mother  than  I." 

She  settled  herself  with  her  back  to  a  tree-trunk, 
so  that  she  could  see  on  the  slope  the  black  square 
of  the  "gourbi"  entrance,  and  began: 

"We  went  to  Jerusalem  thirty  years  ago — or  is  it 
thirty-five.  My  husband  was  a  Russian  by  birth, 
an  engineer.  He  met  me  at  Malta,  where  my  fp.ther 
was  a  petty  officer  in  the  dockyard.  Fifteen  I  was 
then  and  foolish.  Michael  Orloff  deserted  his  ship 
— I  my  father's  house.  Neither  had  been  too  com- 
fortable. He  took  me  to  Jerusalem  with  the  little 
money  he  had.  He  knew  the  builder  of  the  new 
Greek  and  Armenian  convents  there — he  was  sure 
of  work.  For  he  was  clever.  And  after  that,  they 
made  him  architect  of  all  the  sacred  places.  That 
is,  the  Greeks  did.  As  for  me  I  had  been  brought 
up  Catholic,  a  Roman.  It  was  the  faith  of  my 
mother.  So  I  went  to  the  Latins  for  their  services 
and  for  confession.  Till  finally  we  stood  well  with 
both  parties.  And  my  husband  busied  himself  in 
strengthening  and  even  rebuilding — quietly,  indeed 
secretly,  for  fear  of  the  Turks — the  Church  of  the 


22  THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

Holy  Sepulchre,  which,  before  his  time,  had  been 
no  better  than  a  crumbling  rabbit-warren. 

"No,  we  had  no  children.  And  that  was  the 
greatest  part  of  my  unhappiness.  I  do  not  think 
my  husband  cared  so  much.  You  see,  he  was  busy 
with  other  things.  But  I — I  was  very  lonesome  in 
these  days.  A  bricked  court  to  keep  me  in  mind  of 
Malta  (I  hated  their  beaten  earth),  a  range  of 
whitewashed  wall  with  never  a  window  to  the  street, 
and  the  flat  house-top  under  the  shelter  of  the 
Sepulchre  church.  And  no  one  to  speak  to,  often 
from  dawn  to  dark,  and  then  as  to  speech  neither 
my  mother's  Italian,  nor  my  father's  English — only 
mewing  Greek,  or  Yiddish  like  dogs  barking. 

"So  I  would  put  on  a  veil  like  a  Turkish  woman, 
and  wander  the  city.  In  those  days,  the  Turks  held 
the  strong  hand  over  Jerusalem.  The  yakmash  was 
sacred,  and  none  looked  the  way  I  was  on. 

"That  was  before  railways  and  the  blatter  of 
tourists.  I  even  entered  the  court  of  the  Mosque, 
as  far  as  women  may,  that  is.  The  guards  let  me 
pass,  thinking  me  some  'house  mother'  seeking  a 
belated  school-boy.  There  were  many  pashas  in 
those  days.  From  my  habit  I  might  be  of  the 
household  of  one.  So  more  often  than  not  they 
saluted. 

"Or  I  wandered  on  Mount  Zion  which  also  was 
safe  then — the  Turks  doing  evil  themselves  but  per- 
mitting none  other  to  do  it.  And  one  day  on  the 
very  point  of  Zion  where  the  cemeteries  are,  I  saw 
the  body  of  a  poor  man  borne  out  wrapped  in  his 


HIS  MOTHER  23 

blue  woollen  garments.  He  was  buried  hastily  by 
the  bearers  before  I  could  come  up  with  them.  Then 
I  saw  this  boy — he  that  was  after  my  son  and  is 
now — yonder,  scattering  dust  upon  the  shallow 
grave  and  singing — yes,  smging  as  the  monks  do — 
Latin,  Greek,  Armenian — I  know  not.  I  heard-  no 
words.  Only  he  sang  on  in  his  child's  voice  and 
scattered  dust.  Then  he  went  to  the  grave-head 
and  held  out  his  baby  hands  in  benediction.  He 
was  not  weeping. 

"At  which  something  bounded  in  my  heart.  I 
fell  a-crying  bitterly  and  the  babe  came  and  put 
his  hand  in  mine.  He  had  nothing  upon  him  but  a 
thin  robe  to  his  knees,  blue  like  the  dead  man's. 

"  'Some  pilgrim's  child,'  I  said  to  myself.  For 
in  Jerusalem  there  are  many  such — abandoned  by 
their  people,  more  often  than  not. 

"  'Where  do  you  live?'  I  asked  him  in  all  the 
languages  I  knew,  which  were  not  a  few.  But  he 
would  only  smile  and  throw  up  his  baby  hands  in 
blessing.  Till  I,  being  conquered,  said  'Bless  me 
also,  little  one!' 

"For  such  things  are  fortunate,  and  they  live  long 
and  have  good  fortune  who  receive  the  benediction 
of  the  witless. 

"He  was  no  more  than  three  years  of  his  age,  or 
it  might  be  four — and  as  I  tell  you,  poorly  dressed 
but  clean  of  his  person.  And  he  clasped  me  about 
the  neck,  and  suffered  me  to  carry  him  away,  neither 
weeping  nor  merry — only  very  serene.  For  it  was 
my  purpose  to  work  on  my  husband  that  he  might 


24  THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

stay  with  us.  For  my  heart  ached  for  a  child — yes, 
for  this  child  above  any  other.  Because  he  was 
beautiful,  and  I  knew  well  that  if  God  had  given  me 
a  child  he  would  have  been  even  as  this  boy.  How 
did  I  know  it — I  was  a  woman. 

"And  as  I  passed  the  gardens  of  the  Armenian 
convent,  and  the  door  of  the  house  called  the  Coena- 
culum,  I  saw  written  above  it  words  which  my  hus- 
band had  read  to  me.    They  were  these: 

"  'And  in  That  Day  His  Feet 
Shall  Stand  Upon  Mount  Olivet/ 

"Then  I  was  glad,  for  the  thing  was  of  good  omen. 
And  at  that  the  child  pushed  upon  my  side  with  his 
feet,  and  clapped  his  hands,  and  his  face  was  rosy 
with  the  light  of  the  setting  sun.  Thus  I,  Mary, 
wife  of  Michael  Orloff,  brought  this  child  home,  and 
by  the  permission  of  Michael  my  husband  and  the 
blessing  of  God,  I  reared  him  till  he  became  a  holy 
man  and  the  head  of  the  great  Order  of  the  Holy 
Sepulchrians. 

"But  now  I  would  not  intrude  upon  him.  For 
he  would  bid  me  begone.  I  had  promised  not  to 
follow  him.  But  after  two  days  I  could  not  abide 
longer,  and  so — I  am  here  and  you  who  are  of  my 
country  must  hide  me — that  is,  until  he  needs  me." 

"And  your  husband?"  I  asked  her. 

"Oh  he — "  she  replied  carelessly  enough,  "he 
lived  not  long  after,  leaving  me  all  that  he  had. 
It  was  well.  I  could  not  have  reared  the  boy  else. 
God  rest  the  soul  of  Michael  Orloff.    He  was  to  me 


HIS  MOTHER  25 

a  good  husband  while  he  lasted.  But  the  boy,  the 
boy — ah,  look,  he  is  awake!  Even  now  he  came  to 
the  door.  He  is  beckoning.  I  will  run  to  him.  No, 
hide  me.  Hold  me.  Go  thou  quickly,  and  I  will 
wait.  I  will  wait  here  where  I  am.  He  shall  not 
have  to  complain  of  me,  his  mother.  But  bide  not 
too  long.  Come  back  and  tell  me  what  he  says, 
what  he  wants,  how  he  is — all — all — all!  Each  word 
• — each  look.    Or  I  shall  go  myself  to  see.    Go!  Go!" 


CTTAPTER  III:     THE  WORD  WITH  POWER 
DWELLING  AMONG  US 

But  as  soon  as  he  set  his  eyes  upon  me,  he  knew. 
It  was  the  first  manifestation  of  that  marvellous 
instinct  of  which  I  have  afterwards  so  many  things 
to  tell. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "you  know.  Mary  Orloff  has  told 
you.    Where  is  she?" 

Instinctively  I  turned  to  the  purple-splashed 
shadows  of  the  pine-tree  grove. 

"You  are  to  come  up,"  I  cried  in  English,  "he 
knows." 

And  hastily  but  without  the  slightest  surprise  the 
woman  came,  climbing  over  the  scorched  brown 
slopes,  still  slippery  with  the  heat  of  the  mid-day 
sun.  With  long  eager  strides  she  came.  Yet  I  could 
see  that  she  was  trembling  when  she  stood  before 
him.  The  hand  that  held  her  skirt  shook,  and  the 
coarse  straw  bonnet,  bought  for  a  few  pence  at  some 
town  she  had  passed  through,  threw  a  quaint  mush- 
room shadow  before  her  which  nodded  and  trembled 
also. 

"Christopher,"  she  began — and  then  after  a  pause 
she  repeated  the  same  word,  "Christopher!" 

But  seeing  him  mild,  nay,  even  gently  smiling,  she 
took  courage  and  added,  "I  could  not  help  it.     I 

26 


THE  WORD  WITH  POWER  27 

knew — that  you  would  need  me,  son  Christopher. 
I  brought  you  another  robe.  It  is  wet,  this  you 
have  on.  Also  many  other  things  from  Rome.  They 
are  down  yonder,  at  the  little  village.  There  are 
rough  men  there — the  innkeeper " 

'T  saw  them,"  he  said,  "they  are  not  ill  folk,  only 
foolish — the  raw  stuff  of  men.  But  we  will  go  down 
there  presently.  We  must  not  longer  charge  this 
Friend  (he  smiled  as  he  looked  towards  me)  this 
Friend  with  our  cares.    Come,  Mary  Orloff  I" 

"I  am  ready,  my  son!" 

But  I  would  not  have  them  part  thus.  The  sun 
was  setting,  the  night  striding  towards  us  out  of  the 
west.  I  would  not  hear  of  their  going.  Besides, 
after  looking  into  those  eyes  of  his,  madman  or  no, 
mad  Monk  Christopher  or  sage  White  Pope,  I  did 
not  mean  ;,gain  to  be  alone.  So  I  told  the  woman 
how  that  there  was  safety  and  health  on  the  hillside. 
In  the  valley  lurked  malaria  and  worse.  My  little 
beehive  shelter  was  not  the  only  one.  Behind,  and 
not  fifty  yards  higher  up  was  a  little  deserted  house, 
built  of  the  stone  of  the  mountain  roughly  squared 
and  plastered.  In  shape  it  was  like  two  packing- 
cases  set  close  together,  one  lying  on  its  side,  and 
the  other  standing  on  end.  Afterwards  I  found  that 
it  had  been  built  by  a  royal  Duke  for  his  forest 
guards,  who,  however,  had  long  been  frightened 
away  by  the  brigands  of  the  country. 

"We  will  go  yonder,  to  the  guards'  cabin,"  I  said, 
"it  is  easy  to  make  a  bed  in  each  room,  and  light  a 
fire  to  smoke  out  the  mosquitoes." 


28         THE  LIGHT  (3UT  OF  THE  EAST 

"But  ray  parcel,"  said  the  woman,  "it  is  with  the 
innkeeper  down  yonder  at  Appiano.  I  did  not  like 
his  look!" 

"No  more  did  I,"  I  agreed.  "Well,  wait  only  till 
I  have  gathered  some  romarin  and  heath.  Then  I 
will  come  with  you." 

"I  shall  come  also,"  said  the  Monk  in  White, 
simply. 

Being  accustomed  to  changes,  it  did  not  take 
long  for  me  to  shift  the  small  mattress  roll  from 
the  "gourbi"  on  the  slope  to  the  cabin  in  the  hollow 
behind  the  peak.  I  spread  it  for  the  woman  in  the 
inner  room.  And  for  the  Monk  (I  had  not  made  up 
my  mind  even  yet)  I  made  a  sweet-scented  couch  of 
juniper,  rosemary,  lavender — springy,  soft,  not  to 
be  despised.  On  our  return  I  meant  to  make  an- 
other for  myself,  as  I  had  often  done  before. 

The  woman  helped  me  with  silent  zeal,  and  an 
eagerness  to  meet  my  wishes  which  touched  me  pro- 
foundly. He,  on  the  other  hand,  whom  she  called 
her  son,  looked  away  across  at  the  orange  splendours 
of  the  sunset  without  moving  a  muscle.  I  could  see 
that  he  gave  no  more  consideration  to  the  bodily 
needs — food,  shelter,  clothing — than  if  he  had  been 
immortal.  Yet,  to  my  knowledge,  he  took  them 
when  they  came  his  way,  enjoying  them  as  other 
men — or  perhaps  more  exactly,  like  a  simple  child, 
easily  pleased  and  quick  to  show  his  pleasure. 

We  went  down  the  mile-and-half  to  the  village  of 
Appiano.  It  is  even  as  other  villages  of  the  south- 
ern Abruzzi — perhaps  even  a  little  dirtier,  the  in- 


THE  WORD  WITH  POWER  29 

habitants  a  trifle  more  villainous-looking,  and 
enjoying,  owing  to  its  nearness  to  the  settled  coun- 
try, a  yet  worse  reputation. 

The  landlord  I  had  squared  at  my  first  coming 
by  committing  to  his  care  all  I  had,  except  a  few 
provisions  and  my  sleeping  kit.  I  had  assured  him 
that  nobody  in  the  world  would  pay  a  copper  for  my 
ransom,  but  that  if  he  kept  the  local  villains  in 
check,  certain  monies  would  arrive  at  intervals.  But 
that  if  aught  befell  me,  he  would  have  to  answer 
to  a  yet  greater  rascal  than  himself,  the  sjmdic  of 
the  town  of  Villafranca  out  on  the  Apulian  plain. 
Being  thua  advised  that  it  would  be  better  to  gain 
a  little  at  a  time  than  to  cut  my  throat  once  for  all 
and  get  nothing,  Peter  Vecchia  and  I  got  on  none 
so  ill. 

I  have  visited  him  sometimes  in  the  evenings, 
when  his  drinking-shop  was  the  haunt  of  all  the 
sandalled,  straw-legginged  gentry  for  miles,  gener- 
ally with  a  glittering  head-like  eye  (more  seldom 
with  two),  teeth  showing  in  an  evil  grin,  and  a  long 
stiletto  wherewith  to  redd  all  quarrels  and  settle  all 
arguments. 

Nevertheless  the  three  of  us  went  down  to  Peter 
Vecchia's  inn.  We  could  hear  the  noise  long  before 
we  got  there — women  dancing  on  the  bowling  alley, 
shouting  as  if  bitten  by  the  Great  Spider — the  men 
more  silent  but  probably  worse  employed.  The  vil- 
lage, scenting  sweet  enough  with  its  evening  fires  of 
pine  cones  and  cow-cakes  coming  pungently  up  the 
hill  upon  the  sea-wind,  lay  just  round  the  corner. 


30         THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

Peter  Vecchia  did  not  wish  his  fellows  to  see  too 
much  of  the  ongoings  at  his  brigands'  hosteliy. 

But  somehow  none  of  us  were  the  least  afraid. 
The  Priest  in  White  went  first.  In  fact  he  always 
did  so.  His  mother  and  I,  without  intending  it, 
seemed  by  instinct  to  fall  a  step  to  the  rear.  In  fact 
from  the  first  he  led — we  followed.  When  anything 
common  or  mechanical  had  to  be  done — the  opening 
of  a  gate  on  the  road,  of  a  door  in  a  street,  the  tak- 
ing of  a  railway  ticket  for  a  journey,  he  stood  aside, 
and  one  or  the  other  of  us  arranged  the  matter. 
Then  we  went  on  again  half  a  step  to  the  rear  as 
before.    He  spoke  to  us  over  his  shoulder. 

At  the  door  of  Peter  Vecchia's  inn  he  stood  silent 
listening,  but  not  (as  I  judge)  to  the  voices  within. 
He  appeared  rather  to  be  waiting  for  an  answer 
from  Someone  Unseen. 

Then  he  lifted  up  one  hand.  The  two  first  fingers 
were  outstretched,  the  others  flexed. 

"Peace  be  to  this  house,"  he  said,  "and  to  all 
peaceful  men  within  it!" 

There  came  a  sudden  hush — then  a  rising  hum  as 
of  insects  waxing  angry  at  being  disturbed — then  a 
rush  for  the  door,  and  we  were  surrounded. 

But  as  the  dark-browed  men  came  tumbling  out, 
each  with  a  hand  on  his  knife,  white  teeth  showing 
a  little  like  those  of  snarling  dogs,  they  stood  ar- 
rested, each  man  in  his  place.  New  arrivals  thrust 
the  first  comers  a  little  aside.  They  elbowed  ner- 
vously, but  did  each  other  no  harm.    Nor  us. 

The  Monk  Christopher  had  grown  taller,  or  at 


THE  WORD  WITH  POWER  31 

least  so  it  seemed.  There  was  now  a  compelling 
majesty  about  his  action  and  gesture.  The  women 
and  lads  ceased  their  clamour  down  on  the  hard 
beaten  earth  of  the  bowling  alley.  They  flocked 
across,  growing  silent  as  they  came. 

The  Monk's  hand  was  still  extended.  The  glory 
of  the  setting  sun  enveloped  him.  In  his  left  hand 
he  held  the  ivory  crucifix  upon  its  iron  chain. 

At  the  first  sound  of  the  sonorous  Latin  blessing, 
the  throng  sank  on  their  knees — the  women  espe- 
cially pushing  and  uttering  little  bat-like  cries,  de- 
siring to  be  nearer. 

"He  is  a  holy  man — he  is  mad — his  blessing  brings 
children — noble  children — good  luck,  much  money! 
Bless  me  also,  O  my  father ! " 

And  they  pressed  and  buffeted  to  win  in  under 
his  hand,  like  sheep  into  the  narrow  entrance  of  a 
fold — all,  that  is,  but  Peter  Vecchia,  whom  I  saw 
busy  within,  hasting  to  fold  up  a  bundle.  I  noticed 
particularly  his  anxiety,  his  clumsy  gestures.  Mes- 
senger and  message  were  not  for  him.  If  ever  I  met 
a  true  child  of  the  devil,  it  was  this  Peter  Vechia  of 
the  inn  at  Appiano. 

The  White  Monk  had  begun  in  Latin.  But  after 
the  roll  of  the  first  well-known  formula,  he  changed 
immediately  to  the  familiar  Italian  folk-speech.  He 
had  a  slightly  foreign  accent — the  same  accent  what- 
ever he  spoke.  And  indeed  the  matter  of  language 
seemed  indifferent  to  him. 

Somewhat  thus  he  spoke : 

"May  the  God  who  maketh  men  and  swayeth 


S2         THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

hearts,  make  you,  his  poor  sinful  folk,  see  the  Vision, 
and  listen  to  the  Voice.  Give  back  that  which  ye 
have  taken  from  other  men.  Do  good  to  your  neigh- 
bour. Love  him  a  little  and  ye  will  love  God  much. 
I  am  he  whom  men  seek  to  slay.  Let  not  my  blood 
be  on  your  hands,  for  I  am  but  a  man  like  your- 
selves. And  the  God  who  filled  my  heart  with  Him- 
self will  fill  yours  also.  Pray,  brethren.  Thus  it  is 
that  God  comes — thus  and  thus  only. 

"In  the  incense  and  the  lifted  wafer  have  ye  found 
Him?  Did  He  enter  your  hearts  at  the  tinkle  of 
the  bell?  I  tell  you  'No'!  But  in  silence,  when 
ye  saw  your  sin  great  before  you  and  repented,  then 
God  filled  your  hearts. 

"In  the  myriad  stars  I  have  not  found  Him. 
He  is  there,  but  not  for  us  men.  We  reach  no  higher 
than  the  trees  of  Adam's  garden,  and  the  fruit  ye 
pluck  is  mostly  forbidden.  In  your  hearts  alone  ye 
will  find  God.  They  are  His  temples.  In  your 
lives  ye  must  show  Him,  if  at  all.  This  is  too  high 
for  you — long  it  was  too  high  for  me.  But  it  is  the 
only  True  Word.  Do  not  forget,  even  if  now  ye 
fail  to  understand.    Amen!" 

A  stout  red-faced  man  with  a  pugilistic  face 
elbowed  his  way  to  the  front.  He  was  clad  in  rusty 
black — I  saw  the  bedropped  untidy  priestly  soutane. 
Evidently  he  was  angry. 

"Stand  up  all  of  you,"  he  cried  to  the  kneeling 
folk,  "ye  are  deceived.  This  is  a  charlatan — no 
Christian  man — an  impostor!  I — I  will  unmask 
him!" 


THE  WORD  WITH  POWER  33 

He  actually  trod  on  the  kneeling  people,  so  eager 
was  he  to  reach  the  White  Monk.  But  when  he 
turned  his  turbid  frogged  eyes  on  the  Preacher  of 
the  new  doctrine,  they  fell.  That  calm  regard  was 
invincible.  But  the  priest  was  no  more  master  of 
himself. 

"He  tells  you  there  is  to  be  no  altar,  no  com- 
munion, no  confession,  no  absolution,  no  priest,  no 
Holy  Church — no  Holy  Father  sitting  supreme  in 
Rome " 

And  gently  waving  his  slender  hand  and  bowing 
his  head  in  time  to  the  priest's  furious  indictment, 
the  Monk  in  White  nodded  an  exact  agreement. 

"None,"  he  said,  softly,  yet  so  clearly  that  all 
could  hear,  "none  of  these — priests,  Holy  Church 
militant  on  earth.  The  Son  of  Mary  is  to  arise  like 
the  dayspring  in  your  hearts.  THE  KINGDOM 
OF  GOD  IS  AT  HAND!" 

"And  who  are  you?"  cried  the  priest,  "that  take 
so  much  upon  yourself?  Some  heretic — Protestant, 
atheist,  blasphemer! — I  have  heard  of  such.  But 
they  shall  not  last  long  in  my  parish.  Seize  him, 
good  folk.  Fling  him  from  the  Black  Cliff.  It  is  a 
good  work!" 

But  the  White  Monk  answered  only  with  a  smil- 
ing quiet.  "Ye  cannot.  I  am  he  who  was  called 
Cardinal  Christopher  of  the  Order  of  the  Sepul- 
chrians.  I  am  now  the  Pope,  whom  ye  call  the  Holy 
Father!" 

And  though  I  think  none  took  in  his  words,  and 
especially  to  the  priest  the  assertion  must  have 


34         THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

seemed  a  vain  thing,  yet  somehow  the  uplifted  hand, 
the  pose  of  certain  command,  the  strength  and  gen- 
tleness of  word  and  action  thrilled  every  heart.  But 
he  looked  only  at  the  priest. 

"Kneel,"  he  commanded,  almost  royally,  "I  am 
your  Holy  Father  according  to  the  Church — though 
your  brother  in  Christ's  gospel.  Kneel  and  pray — • 
then  rise  and  obey.    I  command  it!" 

The  parish  priest  of  this  turbulent  brigands'  nest 
battled  a  moment,  his  eyes  injected,  his  features 
tumefied  with  rage.  But  suddenly  something 
seemed  to  pass  from  one  to  the  other  like  the  glitter 
between  the  poles  of  an  electric  battery.  The  purple 
face  blanched,  the  defiant  pose  fell  in  upon  itself. 
The  man  rather  dropped  on  hia  face  than  kneeled. 


CHAPTER  IV:     WITHOUT  A  PARABLE 
SPAKE  HE  NOT  UNTO  THEM 

After  this  the  people  dispersed  reluctantly.  Only 
when  their  priest  himself  bade  them  sternly  to  be 
gone  would  they  obey.  Then  I  saw  Mary  Orlofif 
coming  towards  me.  There  was  anxiety  in  her 
looks.    She  wrung  her  hands. 

"I  cannot  trouble  him — my  son — about  so  little," 
she  said,  "but  the  innkeeper,  an  evil  man,  denies  that 
I  ever  gave  him  any  parcel — it  was  a  bag  of  canvas 
striped  in  red  and  grey — oh,  such  an  evil  man!  All 
I  had  of  my  son's  was  in  it.  I  must  have  it.  Other- 
wise he  should  be  shamed  before  men — and  his 
mother  also — I  who  can  do  nought  else  for  him. 
Last  night  I  sat  late  washing  and  dressing  for  him. 
He  puts  them  on  even  as  I  lay  them  down,  knowing 
not  difference  between  the  new  and  the  old,  his  mind 
being  on  other  things." 

I  went  in  with  her  to  the  innkeeper.  His  inn's 
foul  guest-chamber  was  empty  and  he  was  angry 
and  evil,  with  a  red  leer  in  his  foxy  eyes.  He  would 
do  a  mischief  if  he  could.  From  that  moment  I  re- 
solved that  Peter  Vecchia  would  bear  watching. 

"This  lady,"  I  began,  quietly,  "deposited  a  pack- 
age with  you.  Give  it  up  to  her.  For  the  present 
I  have  no  need  of  those  I  left." 

35 


36         THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

"She  left  nothing!"  said  Peter,  lying  boldly. 

But  when  Mary  Orloff  with  a  tremble  in  her 
voice  besought  him  to  tell  the  truth  and  give  her 
those  things  of  which  she  had  need,  I  bade  her  per- 
mit me  to  speak.  I  had  another  way  with  men  of 
Peter's  stamp. 

On  my  left  hand  and  on  the  fourth  finger,  I  wore 
a  ring,  a  silver  ring  set  on  gold.  It  was  famous. 
All  Apulia  knew  it.  Chiro's  ring  it  was,  chief  seal 
and  mandatory  of  the  most  terrible  association  of 
assassins  the  world  has  known.  It  was  only  a  little 
skull,  a  death's  head  made  carefully  in  silver,  the 
name  of  the  terrible  Chiro  Anachiarico  graven  on 
the  smooth  boss  of  the  cerebellum. 

This  I  exhibited  to  Peter  Vecchia. 

"You  set  up  for  a  ruffian,"  I  told  him,  "and  so 
you  are.  But  in  Villafranca  I  know  a  man  before 
whom  you  tremble  as  an  aspen  leaf  in  the  sea-wind. 
Shall  I  tell  you  his  name?" 

"I  know  it,"  said  Peter  hastily,  his  eyes  on  the 
ring  which  I  turned  about  and  about. 

"Well,"  said  I,  "that  nameless  man  has  taught 
me  that  sometimes  it  is  well  to  fight  the  devil  with 
his  own  weapons.  He  himself  trembles  before  that 
ring.  He  would  not  wear  it  for  all  the  wealth  which 
Chiro  gathered.  If  you  do  not  bring  forth  the  bag 
striped  red  and  grey — if  in  five  minutes  you  do  not 
show  the  full  tale  of  its  contents,  I  will  lay  on  you 
the  Curse  of  the  Silver  Skull!" 

"The  Decisione— the  Death  of  the  Twelve!"  he 


WITHOUT  A  PARABLE  37 

murmured  low  to  himself  as  if  mermerised  by  the 
dull  glitter  of  the  metal. 

"Go — ,"  I  commanded,  "and  quickly!  There 
remains  but  five  minutes.    Then  the  Curse!" 

Peter  Vecchia  flung  into  a  long  passage.  At  the 
end  stood  and  ticked,  loudly  and  dully,  an  immense 
clock,  at  least  eight  feet  high  in  its  bulging  ventrous 
case  ornamented  with  tarnished  gilding.  He  opened 
the  door,  and  lo,  the  bag  which  Mary,  the  wife  of 
Michael  Orloff,  had  described! 

"Open  it  and  see  if  all  be  safe!"  I  ordered.  Then 
I  turned  my  back  that  the  woman  might  not  be 
embarrassed.  For  I  knew  she  was  even  as  Martha 
of  Bethany,  cumbered  with  much  servdng,  that  she 
dreaded  to  appear  officious  about  her  son — even  to 
me,  whom  she  now  looked  upon  as  a  friend. 

It  was  dark  when  we  reached  the  stone  hut  be- 
hind the  little  "gourbi."  The  priest  had  come  also. 
The  White  Monk  (I  could  not  yet  bring  myself  to 
call  him  the  White  Pope)  had  laid  a  hand  familiarly 
on  his  shoulder  and  they  had  gone  up  together.  I 
know  not  what  the  matter  of  their  converse  had 
been.  But  the  priest,  whom  I  saw,  was  a  changed 
man;  Vergas  "vyas  his  name. 

His  lips  were  pale,  and  he  trembled,  as  one  does 
who  has  escaped  an  awful  and  violent  death.  But 
he  recovered  sufficiently  to  find  some  matches  to 
light  my  oil  "Vesuvius."  It  came  to  my  mind  that 
I  could  turn  an  omelette  v;ith  the  eggs  I  had  bought 
at  the  nearest  farm  that  morning.    These,  fried  with 


38         THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

the  crumb  of  the  bread,  and  washed  down  with  the 
rest  of  the  wine,  would  make  us  a  supper. 

But  the  priest  insisted  on  going  down  for  a  platter 
of  jQsh  he  had  that  day  wiled  out  of  the  stream 
which  slipped  down  towards  Appiano — two  fathom 
deep  in  the  pools,  but  a  mere  trickle  between  them. 

Nothing  would  serve  him  but  that. 

When  he  returned,  with  the  fish  covered  and 
smoking,  we  supped  with  relish — at  least  I  did.  The 
priest  tasted  nothing,  but  the  White  Monk  partook 
of  a  little,  and  forced  his  mother  also  to  sit  with  us 
at  the  stone  slab  which  served  for  a  table.  She  had 
drawn  her  stool  back  into  the  darkness,  whence, 
from  behind  her  hand,  she  could  watch  her  son  in  a 
kind  of  bliss  of  possession. 

Door  to  the  stone  house  there  was  none,  and  the 
only  windows  were  pieces  of  wood  shaped  to  the 
size  of  the  frame,  which  could  be  lifted  into  their 
places  when  the  wind  or  rain  beat  in.  But  this 
warm  still  night  we  could  see  the  Pole  Star  low 
down  to  the  north,  with  the  Bear  crawling  round  it 
slowly.  During  the  time  we  sat  there,  I  watched 
him  pass  the  tall  velvety  oblong  of  the  window  from 
nose  to  tail,  as  the  stars  wheeled  and  we  sat  listen- 
ing. And  when  the  last  star  vanished,  lo,  the  White 
Monk  had  become  of  a  certainty  the  White  Pope. 
And  by  that  name  he  shall  be  called  till,  in  the  ful- 
ness of  time,  a  New  Name  is  found  for  him. 

Now  all  men  know  him,  and  he  needs  neither 
that  nor  another. 

This  first  night  of  nights,  however,  it  was  other- 


WITHOUT  A  PARABLE  39 

wise.  Only  one  of  us  believed  wholly  upon  him, 
and  that  was  the  Woman  who  had  been  to  him  as  a 
mother.  The  priest  was  more  dazed  than  anything 
else.  He  was  a  dull  man,  unlearned,  and  followed 
(as  I  judge)  with  something  of  the  eye-service  of 
a  strong  dog  who,  all  unexpectedly  in  the  midst  of 
his  barking,  has  felt  his  master's  stick  across  his 
back.  I  mean,  of  course,  that  first  night.  After- 
wards this  Vergas  became  a  good  and  a  brave  com- 
panion and,  in  the  event,  fully  proved  his  faith — 
but  all  that  is  yet  to  come. 

"This  which  I  have  to  tell,  I  will  teU,"  said  the 
White  Monk.  "Do  you  listen.  The  story  has  not 
been  told  before.  When  I  was  a  lad  in  the  convent 
school,  frequenting  all  the  wise  men,  both  Greeks 
and  Latins,  I  knew  that  something  like  this  would 
come  to  me.  I  remember  nothing  earlier  than  my 
cell  at  the  convent,  the  duty  of  serving  the  Mass 
wdth  some  old  mumbling  father,  and  afterwards  the 
gladness  of  escape  to  wander  on  Mount  Zion." 

"Ah!"  sighed  the  woman  in  the  darkness  behind. 
And  I  knew  she  was  thinking  of  that  earlier  time 
when  she  had  found  the  small  curl-headed  boy  wan- 
dering alone  on  Mount  Zion,  among  the  tombs  of 
the  dead  and  the  abominations  of  the  living. 

It  was  wonderful  the  simplicity  with  which  the 
story  was  told — the  voice  which  had  struck  awe  into 
the  brigand  mountaineers  of  the  Trastevera  falling 
low  and  gentle  on  our  ears,  with  a  strange  halt  be- 
tween the  sentences,  as  if  the  tale-teller  were  won- 


40         THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

dering  how  much  it  would  be  well  for  us  to  know. 
I  do  not  pretend  to  give  his  words,  but  I  shall  try- 
to  avoid  any  colouring  of  my  own,  as  much  as  is 
possible. 

"There  on  Mount  Zion  I  wandered  (he  went  on) 
when  I  was  wearied  with  learning.  I  spoke  with  the 
pilgrims — at  first  to  learn  their  tongues. — All  the 
nations  of  the  world  came  to  Jerusalem  in  those 
days,  not  as  now  by  the  railway  and  with  red  books 
in  their  hands.  But  to  worship.  Yet  what?  They 
knew  not  what. 

"The  spot  where  the  Cross  was  set  up — there  in 
mine  own  convent,  in  the  church  over  which  in  time 
authority  was  given  me,  where  His  body  had 
been  laid — thither  they  went  by  hundreds.  They 
grovelled  on  the  floor  of  the  Rotunda,  kissing,  as 
they  thought,  the  centre  of  the  earth.  They  would 
not  rise  even  if  the  Turk  guards  walked  over  them. 
And  then  I  put  on  a  pair  of  orange  shoes  and  a 
turban,  and  walked  within  the  Mosque  of  Omar,  I 
saw  them  praying  with  equal  fervency  to  Allah  and 
calling  upon  Mahomet  his  prophet.  They  showed 
me  the  place  where  David  and  the  prophets  had 
worshipped.  In  our  holy  Christian  places  we  did 
the  same.  Pilgrims  came  to  both.  The  touch  of 
the  stone  on  their  lips  at  the  lifting  of  the  cloth  was 
all  in  all  to  them.  The  spouting  of  the  fire  on  the 
day  of  Pentecost — the  golden  lamps  and  starred 
floor  of  the  sepulchre.  I  saw  that  such  things  were 
what  the  ignorant  worshipped — both  Moslem  and 
Christian.    But  I  could  not. 


WITHOUT  A  PARABLE  41 

"So  instead  I  stood  without  and  worshipped  the 
host  of  heaven.  For  then  I  was  a  young  man  and 
had  no  knowledge.  Besides  that  was  better  than 
to  fall  down  before  the  stocks  and  stones  of  sacred 
sites,  or  to  worship  the  letter  of  a  printed  book. 
Yet  even  then  I  saw  that  Jerusalem,  and  Palestine, 
and  my  own  great  Church  of  the  Sepulchre  were 
but  the  empty  shells  of  the  truth. 

"  'God  is  above,'  I  said,  'and  with  Him  Christ. 
The  Christ  once  walked  here,  where  now  I  walk. 
But  He  is  not  here^ — he  is  risen.' 

"And  I  stamped  my  foot  in  contempt  on  the  pave- 
ment of  inlaid  marble  looking  upward  into  the  hol- 
low vault  of  night,  or  into  the  burning  day — to  find 
Him! 

"  'There,'  said  I,  'there  surely  are  God  and  His 
Christ!' 

"But  I  knew  not,  having  misread  and  misunder- 
stood.   God  gave  me  light,  yet  not  for  long. 

"Then  after  that  came  wars,  and  troubles,  and 
pestilences,  and  some  said  it  was  the  beginning  of 
the  last  things,  and  some  the  openmg  of  the  vials. 
But  these  were  even  as  the  first  opening  of  the  Shut 
Book  to  me.  I  went  and  helped,  at  first  in  feeble- 
ness, and  then  in  power.  Till  men  made  a  name  of 
me  so  that  I  was  shamed,  knowmg  myself  for  the 
feeblest  and  the  least  worthy  of  them  who  had  fol- 
lowed in  the  footsteps  of  that  Son  of  Mary,  who 
was  called  the  Physician.  Then,  too,  I  knew  for 
the  first  time  that  I  was  on  the  selvages  of  Holy 
Ground.    Not  the  Sepulchre,  not  Calvary,  nor  yet 


42  THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

Olivet!  Not  Mount  Zion  nor  Gethsemane.  No, 
nor  Jerusalem,  nor  even  the  Land  of  Palestine.  But 
where  the  poor  are,  where  the  needy  cluster,  where 
the  sick  suffer  and  the  dying  agonise,  where  the 
death  carts  rumble  about  the  streets — that  was  my 
sacred  Ground.  That  was  Holy  Land.  His  feet 
have  trodden  there,  not  in  tradition  only,  but  in 
verity. 

"God  was  teaching  me — but  slowly.  I  regarded 
the  hosts  of  heaven,  the  sun  and  the  moon  that  He 
had  made.  I  considered  the  lily  of  the  field.  But 
He  was  not  in  them,  nor  in  the  exquisite  exactness 
of  the  knowledge  which  reaches  out  to  new  dis- 
coveries, meddling  vainly  with  the  raw  material  of 
the  universe — radium  and  double  stars  and  the  cul- 
ture of  life  in  curious  jellies.  These  were  no  more 
than  the  dust  which  God  shakes  from  His  skirts,, 
soiled  with  so  much  creating.  Nor  should  we  be  an 
inch  nearer  Him,  if  we  knew  not  a  part — but  ALL. 

"Then  for  a  while  I  ceased  wholly  from  cere- 
monies— the  Mass,  the  confession,  even  the  daily 
round  of  praise  and  prayer.  I  would  have  retired 
into  the  wilderness,  but — so  strange  are  men — mine 
own  Order  would  not  permit  me.  The  very  Mos- 
lems with  whom  I  talked  made  a  body-guard  for  me. 
The  Greeks  fell  on  their  faces  and  begged  me  to 
abide.  I  was  their  only  barrier  against  the  Turkish 
wrath. 

"Then  it  came  to  pass  that  I  turned  away  the 
terror  of  an  invader,  and  made  peace.  Last  of  all, 
the  cardinals  in  Rome,  hearing  that  a  certain  man 


WITHOUT  A  PARABLE  43 

in  the  East  illustrated  their  Order  before  the  men 
of  the  world,  pressed  the  Holy  Father  to  choose  me 
as  one  of  themselves.  Then  it  was  given  me  to 
stand  before  emperors  and  kings.  I  spoke,  and 
whether  they  heeded  or  not,  honour  accrued  to  the 
Church.  So  when  His  Holiness  died,  they  called  me 
to  the  Council  of  the  Cardinals.  And  because  the 
rulers  of  this  world  were  arrayed  against  one  another 
in  the  very  bosom  of  the  Conclave,  they  chose  me — 
even  though  I  told  them  to  their  faces  what  I  should 
do — if  I  were  Pope  by  their  making. 

"But  the  more  I  protested,  the  more  set  were 
they.  And  some  thought  that  I  should  abide  alone 
in  the  Vatican  with  my  own  thoughts  and  dreams — 
which  would  be  an  excellent  thing.  These  were  the 
secretaries,  the  diplomats,  and  men  of  worldly  coun- 
cil. And  they  voted  for  me.  And  others  sighed  for 
a  more  ancient  rite,  which  coming  from  the  East,  I 
might  bring  to  them.  And  others  saw  only  a  man 
with  a  repute  for  uprightness,  who  would  cleanse 
this  corner  and  that  in  the  Church's  wide  House. 

"So  at  the  end  they  all  chose  me — and  with  ac- 
claim. And  they  put  robes  on  me,  and  carried  me  in 
a  golden  chair  to  the  seat  of  Peter,  and  set  the  triple 
crown  on  my  head.  Then  they  bade  me  choose  a 
name,  and  I  choose  mine  own  Christopher — because 
it  was  mine  own,  and  also  because  of  what  I  meant 
to  do — to  carry  abroad  the  Christ.  They  pressed  me 
to  take  rank  with  Pius  or  Clement,  Innocent  or  Leo. 
But  I  would  not.  So  being  wearied,  they  ended  by 
proclaiming  Pope  Christopher. 


44         THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

"And  I  would  have  spoken  fully  then  of  my  in- 
tent, but  they  were  aged  men — all,  that  is,  save  I 
myself  and  a  young  black-browed  secretary.  So  I 
waited  till  the  next  day,  and  then,  calling  them 
together,  I  told  them  my  will. 

"I  had  thought  to  move  them  greatly.  But  as 
I  say,  they  were  aged  men,  long-time  princes  of  the 
Church,  dulled  with  much  pomp,  and  that  honour 
of  the  robe  which  eats  in  and  in  like  a  cankerous 
disease.  So  when  I  spoke  of  living  as  Jesus,  the  son 
of  Joseph,  lived — of  working  as  He  wrought,  of 
going  forth  sandal-free  to  teach  men,  even  as  He 
walked  and  spoke — they  went  to  sleep.  The  words 
I  spoke  were  too  familiar.  They  had  heard  them  sa 
long,  that  there  was  no  meaning  in  them  any  more. 
So  they  sat  and  nodded  and  dozed.  They  were  old 
men  and  had  come  far.  And  the  food  had  told  on 
this  one,  and  the  confinement  of  the  Conclave  on 
that.  But  all  the  while  the  secretary  smiled  under 
his  black  brows — smiled  and  smiled.  And  I  knew 
wherefore.  He  thought  that  a  week  of  the  honour, 
of  the  responsibility,  of  the  labour  would  make  me 
even  as  those  who  had  gone  before. 

"So  perhaps  they  might,  but  I  did  not  wait  to  see. 
That  night  I  took  staff  in  hand,  and  in  the  dusk 
when  the  gates  were  shut,  I  passed  out  by  a  little 
door  in  the  angle  of  the  garden  of  which  I  had  the 
key,  and  so  through  the  city  till  I  found  me  alone 
on  the  Campagna. 

"That  night  I  lay  in  an  empty  tomb,  the  entrance 
to  a  catacomb.    And  there  I  had  a  vision.    I  saw 


WITHOUT  A  PARABLE  45 

all  the  vanities  which  men  have  added  to  the  faith 
of  the  Nazarene.  The  Power  Temporal  first — which 
had  (praise  to  His  wisdom!)  been  already  stripped 
from  my  shoulders.  And  with  it  I  saw  the  tinsel  of 
ornament,  the  cathedrals,  the  robes,  the  music,  the 
chorus  of  singers,  the  gold  and  silver  and  jewels  on 
robes  and  walls,  the  more  subtle  delights  of  the 
tickled  senses,  eye-pleasing  ceremonies,  incense,  pro- 
cessions, carried  crucifixes.  In  the  Book  of  the  Four, 
who  are  called  Evangelists,  I  found  nothing  of  all 
that.    Therefore  all  must  go." 

And  in  the  darkness  behind  the  woman  moaned. 
For  next  to  her  son's  love,  these  things  had  made 
religion  to  her.    This  is  common  to  women. 

"Then  I  considered  the  great  men  who  led  the 
Church — princes  and  prelates  in  crimson,  and  violet 
■ — their  palaces,  their  carriages,  their  tables,  and  the 
gold  and  silver  lading  them. 

"I  saw  also  in  my  dream  certain  men  with  worn 
garments  bringing  back  poor  barley  loaves,  coarse 
and  hard,  to  a  Man  who  sat  in  talk  with  a  woman 
upon  a  well-curb.  So  it  seemed  that  these  things 
also  must  go.  There  must  be  an  end — in  so  far  as  I, 
Christopher,  whom  they  had  made  Pope,  was  con- 
cerned. For  the  others  who  remained  behind,  they 
managed  well  a  great  concern,  as  men  who  sit  on 
council-boards  and  direct  commercial  enterprises. 
Let  them — they  have  their  reward.  To  the  diplo- 
matists, I  would  leave  the  supple,  subtle  shifts  of 
policy,  to  the  wise  the  wisdom,  to  the  learned  the 
learning.     Joseph's  son  and  'that  rock'  Peter,  his 


46  THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

disciple,  knew  nothing  of  such  things.  The  staff, 
the  coat  apiece,  the  rye-bread  sent  by  God,  would 
be  the  portion  of  at  least  one  who  had  sat  in  Peter's 
chair!" 

And  at  this  poor  Priest  Vergas  groaned.  For  as 
his  countenance  betrayed,  he  loved  much  the  flesh- 
pots  of  the  churchman's  Egypt.  Yet,  as  I  say,  after- 
wards he  followed  faithfully  enough  this  strange 
pillar  of  mingled  cloud  and  fire  through  the  wilder- 
ness. 

"Also  (the  White  Pope  continued)  I  saw  some- 
thing more — a  thing  which  cut  me  deeper.  I  was 
what  the  men  of  the  world  call  'learned' — I  had 
read  many  books.  Eagerly  I  had  searched  the  new 
spirit.  I  found  from  this  man  and  that,  wise  in  the 
subtleties  of  the  ancient  languages,  that  the  Holy 
Books  were  written  so  and  so — this  one  and  that 
other  adding  his  stone.  For  a  while  I  had  thought, 
being  ignorant,  that  as  Head  of  the  Church,  I  might 
take  this  as  my  truth,  proclaim  it,  adopt  it,  sanctify 
it.  After  all  it  might  be  so.  Truth  was  truth  and 
could  not  be  shamed. 

"Now  (still  in  my  vision)  I  saw  that  God  was  no 
more  present  in  this  microscope  work  on  musty 
parchments  than  He  had  been  in  the  giant  telescopes 
which  push  their  furrows  amid  the  infinity  of  stars. 

"Human  patchwork  or  God's  own  shorthand — it 
was  no  great  matter  which  the  Bible  might  be. 
Prophet  and  singer,  apostle  and  evangelist — the 
message  of  each,  God-given,  lay  on  the  surface.  It 
might  be  hidden  from  the  wise  and  prudent,  but  it 


WITHOUT  A  PARABLE  47 

was  revealed  unto  babes.  The  wayfaring  man, 
though  a  fool,  could  not  err  therein. 

"Four  pamphlets  I  saw  containing  all  things — 
scattered  heedless  on  the  world — the  record  of  one 
Man's  life — yet  a  Man  who  left  no  record  of  him- 
self, who  when  he  wrote,  wrote  on  the  sand  or  on 
the  hearts  of  men — all  the  rest,  history,  prophecy, 
epistle,  only  headpiece  and  tailpiece  to  that.  This 
I  saw  clearly. 

"No,"  he  repeated,  softly  after  a  pause,  "learning 
had  failed.    God  was  not  there!" 

[And  this,  being  to  my  own  address,  struck  me 
cold.  For  having  been  born  in  the  time  of  the  sages, 
I  had  learned  their  doctrine,  sitting  as  it  were,  at  the 
feet  of  Gamaliel.  But  now  even  Gamaliel  was  a 
vain  thing.] 

Then  we  three,  Vergas  the  Priest,  I  and  the 
woman,  all  leaned  forward  and  asked  the  same  ques- 
tion. 

"What,  then,  remains?" 

It  came  like  an  appeal  from  each  of  us.  We  could 
see  the  face  of  the  White  Pope  dimly  turned  towards 
the  black  oblong  of  the  open  window.  The  sheet 
lightning  was  pulsing  vaguely  away  over  the  sea  to 
the  south.    The  glimmer  caught  his  eyes. 

He  went  on  in  the  same  quiet,  almost  exagger- 
atedly still  voice. 

"And  in  my  dream  in  the  catacomb  where  the 
dead  lay  I  saw  God — God  as  men  have  seen  Him 
but  once.  He  was  a  man,  poor,  driven,  wandering, 
homeless — yet  nothing  fearing,  in  whom  even  His 


48         THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

enemies  could  find  no  fault.  Poor  men  were  all 
about  Him — poor  men  only.  He  spoke  unacceptable 
words.  The  rich  avoided  Him,  though  some  few 
came  secretly  by  night.  The  learned  condemned 
Him  unheard.  The  well-to-do  laughed  in  their  door- 
ways to  see  the  tattered  company  go  by.  Then  they 
turned  to  their  shops  and  laughed,  button-holing 
of  each  other  in  the  market-places  to  tell  again  the 
tale. 

"But  He  was  the  God.  Either  that  or  there  is 
no  God.  Thus  I  saw  that  what  Man  has  been,  Man 
can  be  again.  He  was  the  Head,  the  Founder.  Men 
in  ignorance  made  me  His  Vice-regent  on  earth.  For 
once — for  once  they  did  right.  I,  Christopher,  the 
foundling  babe  of  Mount  Zion,  without  father,  with- 
out mother,  whom  they  had  made  'Servant  of  the 
Servant  of  God,'  would  endeavour  to  serve  faith- 
fully. The  footsteps  of  Joseph's  Son  I  should  tread 
till  I  died.  His  words  I  would  speak — cost  what  it 
might.    Now,  which  of  you  will  follow?" 

"I,"  said  his  mother,  "but — in  spite  of  all — you 
shall  be  my  son." 

And  her  hand  sought  out  his  in  the  darkness. 

"I,"  cried  the  Vicar  Vergas,  harshly,  and  as  if 
angry  with  himself. 

And  though  I  was  silent,  because  of  known  un- 
worthiness — even  I,  Lucas  Cargill,  meant  to  follow, 
though  it  might  be  afar  off. 

And  as  we  four  sat  silent,  the  world  beneath  us, 
the  solemn  lightnings  of  God  pulsed  steadily  over 
the  sea. 


CHAPTER  V:     THE  EMPTY  CHAIR  OF 

PETER 

Next  morning  we  got  our  first  taste  of  the  reality 
that  was  waiting  us.  A  man  clambered  hastily  up 
from  Appiano,  one  of  these  rough  fellows,  half 
charcoal-burner,  half  bandit,  who  had  stood  listen- 
ing to  the  White  Pope  the  night  before.  He  asked 
me  for  the  village  priest.  I  myself  was  padding 
about  in  shirt  and  trousers,  scraping  together  sticks 
for  the  morning  fire.  (For  I  am  all  Arab  in  this — 
that  it  seems  equally  natural  to  me  to  be  up  and 
about  at  any  one  hour  of  the  twenty-four  as  at  any 
other.) 

"Father  Vergas,"  he  began  hastily,  as  the  Priest 
came  yawning  out,  buttoning  his  soutane,  "there 
are  soldiers  down  at  Lucera,  very  many  of  them. 
They  are  coming  toward  the  Tresteveran.  And 
Peter  Vecchia  went  down  the  mountain  this  morn- 
ing early ! " 

"What  do  you  mean,  Joseph?"  said  the  priest, 
"speak  plain,  man.  What  matter  to  me  the  comings 
and  goings  of  Peter  Vecchia?  And  if  the  soldiers 
are  at  Lucera,  think  you  that  I  am  a  brigand  with 
his  neck  in  a  halter — like  some  folk  I  could  men- 
tion?" 

49 


50         THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

The  mail  stood  with  his  hat  twisting  in  his  fingers. 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders  slightly. 

"No,  my  Father,"  he  answered,  "for  you  it  is  no 
matter.  But — for  him!"  He  pointed  to  the  little 
hut  which  had  been  built  for  the  Duke  of  Abruzzi's 
forest  guard. 

"They  cannot  touch  him — !"  I  cried,  intervening 
hastily,  "they  dare  not!" 

For  as  you  see  by  this  time,  I  had  no  more  doubts. 
And  though  I  could  not  see  the  future,  nor  guess 
all  that  should  come  of  it,  yet  what  the  White  Pope 
told  us  yestreen  was  the  truth  for  me.  Of  that  there 
could  be  no  doubt  at  all,  so  far  as  I  was  concerned. 

The  brigand  looked  at  me,  half  contemptuously. 

"When  the  police  come  to  Appiano,  and  bring 
with  them  a  general  with  soldiers,  there  will  be 
trouble  on  the  Trasteveran,"  he  said.  "Bid  the  holy 
man  rise  and  go.  I  also  will  come  with  you  to  see 
you  safe." 

Thus  was  our  force  enlarged  by  one,  Mario  Zini — 
and  no  mean  man  either,  known  on  the  Trasteveran 
and  through  all  Basilicata.  He  had  under  him  many 
other  men  also  who  feared  neither  soldier  nor  police. 
It  was  like  David  gathering  to  him  into  the  hold 
of  Engedi. 

As  I  went  up  the  hill  to  warn  the  White  Pope 
and  his  mother,  Mario  Zini  added  another  word. 

"I  saw  the  brigadier  of  police  at  Villafranca  this 
morning — "  he  cried,  "he  and  I  have  dealings — 
other  than  official.  Be  it  understood — he  is  wedded 
to  my  wife's  cousin-german,  and  will  succeed  me  in 


THE  EMPTY  CHAIR  OF  PETER  51 

my  best  blood-feud.  But  just  now  he  is  of  the 
poUce.  And  he  bade  me  say  that  this  time  they 
could  not  disobey  or  misunderstand  their  orders. 
The  word  had  come  from  Rome!  It  is  a  matter 
altogether  serious." 

But  how  the  command  came  to  Villafranca  to 
seize  the  White  Pope,  and  what  was  the  nature  of 
the  pressure  put  on  local  police  so  far  removed  from 
the  capital,  I  must  alter  the  due  order  of  time  a 
little  to  explain. 

My  knowledge  of  the  state  of  the  case  as  it  had 
been  in  Rome  came  about  thus.  I  was  in  London, 
months  after,  and  met  one  Vane  Marshall  in  Fleet 
Street.  He  was  of  my  own  age.  I  had  known  him 
as  a  boy  at  Fettes,  where  we  were  in  the  same  house. 
He  had  been  vice-consul  at  Rome  during  the  time 
of  the  disappearance  of  the  Pope,  and  could  give 
me  what  he  called  "inside  track"  information. 

I  took  him  to  the  Retrenchment  Club,  of  which 
I  had  continued  to  pay  the  subscription,  and  there 
we  talked.  What  he  said  comes  in  best  here.  But 
it  must  be  kept  in  mind  all  through  that  we  in  the 
broken  country  south  of  Foggia  knew  nothing  at  the 
time  these  things  happened  of  what  was  going  on 
at  Rome. 

Vane  Marshall  was  an  Oxford  classical  don,  but 
he  had  gone  out  ranching  in  the  "Nor'-West"  in  the 
good  days,  though  all  he  had  brought  back  was  an 
extremely  extended  vocabulary.  He  did  not  know, 
of  course,  that  I  was  interested  specially — not  more. 


52  THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

that  is,  than  all  the  world — in  the  happenings  at 
Rome.  Obviously,  however,  he  had  told  the  story 
often  before.  Several  of  his  best  points  were  clearly 
w^ell-worn  cliches.  At  any  rate  what  he  had  to  say 
was  to  this  purport. 

"I  had  been  watching  the  betting  on  these  old 
Conclave  fellows  with  some  care.  I  had  a  bit  on 
Cardinal  Salviati  myself.  He  was  the  Venice  man, 
you  see,  and  there  was  a  kind  of  superstition  that 
one  Venetian  bishop  would  follow  another.  Besides 
Austria  had  a  finger  in  the  pie  as  usual,  on  account 
of  Trieste,  you  know.  No  'Italia  irridenta'  in  their 
beverage — no,  nor  any  'Subtle  Diplomacy-and-Lead- 
the-Nations-by-the-Nose'  business,  as  in  Leo's  time. 
So  of  course  that  did  for  Cardinal  Ex-ex-secretary 
Terni,  the  Roman  first  favourite.  The  French  fel- 
lows were  voting  for  him  because  they  hated  the 
Austrians — in  a  seventy-year-old,  brotherly  way  of 
course. 

"But  they  were  evidently  splitting  badly.  Day 
after  day  up  went  the  smoke  and  not  a  bit  forrader! 
I  heard  all  about  it  after,  from  a  friend  of  Temi's. 
It  was  that  side  which  forced  the  game.  When  they 
saw  that  they  could  not  beat  the  Austrians,  and  that 
the  old  Vienna-'doyen'  was  all  ready  with  his  'veto' 
if  Terni  were  named  (same  as  the  time  before),  the 
Terni  men  began  to  look  about  them.  It  was  cold- 
drawn  politics,  I  tell  you.  I've  been  to  a  State  nom- 
ination meeting  in  the  woolliest  West — for  Governor 
in  a  presidential  year.  I'll  wager  there  was  enough 
smart  work  put  in  there — to  beat  any  effete  East, 


THE  EMPTY  CHAIR  OF  PETER  53 

and  an  English  general  election  all  to  sticks.  But  it 
ended  in  things  being  conducted  on  reciprocity  prin- 
ciples. Both  parties  shelved  a  possible  president 
apiece — suddenly — and  a  quiet  Peoples'  Party  Green 
Backer  walked  right  in — w-nanimous,  without 
knocking. 

"Well,  so  it  happened  now.  When  the  Temi  men 
saw  they  couldn't  possibly  arrive,  they  looked  about 
for  a  man  to  beat  the  Austrian  nominee.  Do  you 
understand?  To  elect  they  needed  the  big  Orders — 
the  monk  fellows  and  the  Jesuits,  you  know.  So 
they  picked  out  a  mild-looking  Holy  Man,  very 
learned  and  apostolic — rfamines,  pestilences,  and 
persecutions  a  specialite — you  know  the  kind  of 
chap.  They  called  him  The  Light  out  of  the  East' 
where  he  came  from  and  really  he  had  Francis- 
Xavier-ed  around  pretty  much  all  over  the  place, 
from  Turkey  to  Japan,  and  held  all  and  whole  of  the- 
Purple-East-in-fee,  as  it  were.  But  modest — why, 
though  a  Cardinal  at  thirty-three  he  was  called  just 
plain  Brother  Christopher!  And  if  I  had  only 
known  my  business  I  could  have  got  the  biggest 
odds  that  ever  were  offered  in  Rome  against  a  candi- 
date. But,  the  truth  is,  till  the  Temi  fellows  saw 
that  the  Austrians  had  the  drop  on  them,  nobody 
even  knew  the  name  of  Cardinal  Christopher,  Per- 
petual Master  of  the  Order  of  the  Holy  Sepulchreans 
—and  Pocket  Providence  to  that  half  of  the  world 
about  which  nobody  hears,  and  nobody  cares  except 
a  few  retired  colonels  and  our  ex-Emperor  George 
Curzon. 


54         THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

"They  say  Terni  picked  him  out  himself.  Sly 
dog,  Terni!  Those  Austrians  had  beaten  him  once 
before  badly.  But  this  time  he  had  them.  It  was 
a  sure  thing.  Brother  Christopher  would  be  Inno- 
cent the  Hundred-and-First,  and  Terni  would  be  his 
Secretary!    No  flies  on  that  proposition,  hey? 

"Who  but  Pope  Hundred-and-One  would  have  his 
private  room — all  the  Cardinal  Virtues  to  play  with 
—a  blank-cartridge  Encyclical  to  issue  every  alter- 
nate week,  and  Mr.  Secretary  Terni  in  the  outer 
office,  seeing  the  people  and  doing  all  the  business. 
That  was  Temi's  plan — and  what  he  doesn't  know 
isn't  knowledge.  It  certainly  looked  first-class  on 
the  face  of  it. 

"So  they  put  Brother  Christopher  up  for  the  triple 
tiara — this  oriental  St.  Francis — the  darkest  of  dark 
horses.  And  he  made  them  a  windy  kind  of  speech 
(so  they  said)  all  about  equality  and  doing  away 
with  pomps  and  vanities,  if  he  were  chosen.  And 
Terni  was  more  than  ever  sure  that  it  was  all  right, 
but  he  didn't  push  the  matter  too  hard.  He  rather 
let  it  come  from  the  side  of  the  Societies.  And  come 
it  did.  Old  Martino  of  the  Jesuits  became  so  excited 
that  he  got  back  the  power  of  his  paralysed  hand, 
and  cried  out  'Behold,  a  miracle — a  true  miracle! 
Now  I  shall  be  able  to  serve  the  Mass  with  both 
hands!'  A  thing  which  he  had  not  done  for  twenty- 
five  years,  having  a  dispensation  of  old  Leo  the 
Thirteenth,  as  everybody  knows,  to  do  it  with  one. 
But  that,  happening  as  it  did  and  when  it  did,  regu- 
larly   snuffed    out    the   Austrians.      The    English- 


THE  EMPTY  CHAIR  OF  PETER  55 

speaking  Red  Hats,  who  had  been  lying  off,  voting 
for  this  one  and  that  so  as  not  to  increase  the  lead 
of  either  of  the  big  politicals,  now  nudged  each  other, 
and  went  solid  for  Brother  Christopher.  So  did 
Terni's  men — and  so,  of  course,  did  the  Orders.  It 
was  a  regular  nomination  stampede. 

"They  elected  him  so  quick  that  the  blue  smoke 
of  the  last  ballot-burning  had  hardly  melted  from 
the  chimney  top,  before  they  were  out  on  the  bal- 
cony proclaiming  Pope  Christopher  the  First.  There 
had  been  a  wrangle  about  that,  but  as  they  wanted 
the  thing  finished  and  done  with,  they  let  him  please 
himself  about  the  name.  The  cardinals  all  wanted 
badly  to  get  home.  So  they  did  not  even  insist  on 
'Christophorus'  which  some  old  papal  Johnny  had 
called  himself  once  before,  and  would  have  had  a 
more  regular  look. 

"Everybody  just  heaved  a  whopping  sigh.  All 
troubles  were  over,  and  as  Pope  Christopher  was 
a  young  man,  his  hair  hardly  grey,  they  felt  that 
matters  were  arranged  on  a  peace  footing  for  thirty, 
forty,  or  even  fifty  years.  They  were  out  of  it,  at  all 
events.  Terni  would  have  the  leading-strings,  of 
course.  And  it  was  slowly  and  sadly  that  the  Aus- 
trians  began  to  pack  up,  I  wager.  For  they  had 
failed  to  carry  their  man,  and  the  Emperor  would 
most  likely  order  them  to  the  'deepest-dungeon- 
beneath-my-castle-moat' ! — Or  at  least  invite  them 
to  resign  all  their  benefices  and  state  connections. 
Hard  luck,  for  they  had  fought  like — well,  like 
Turks.     It  was  a  regular  surprise  finish.    Nobody 


56         THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

lifted  much,  though,  in  the  Embassies,  except  one  or 
two  wild-catting  attaches  who  had  bet  on  the  'field* 
— against  both  the  favourites,  Temi  and  the  Venice 
man.  And  they  carried  their  tails  so  high  over  their 
backs  that  they  were  barred  coming  into  the  club. 
You  simply  couldn't  speak  to  them.  H.  B.  M.'s 
own  Plenipotentiary  to  Petersburg  couldn't  have 
carried  more  side  than  these  fellows  did — for 
twenty-four  hours — yes,  just  for  twenty-four  hours 
after  the  coronation  and  enthronement. 

"Then  a  kind  of  hollow  anxiety  began  to  pervade 
Rome.  A  kind  of  hush  in  the  air  and  a  look  like 
turned  milk  on  men's  faces.  Ever  been  in  Rome 
when  they  begin  to  whisper  'Cholera'?  Yes!  Well, 
it  was  like  that.  All  the  ofiicials  going  about  swear- 
ing by  their  gods  that  it  was  all  right — healthiest 
town  in  the  world— but,  all  the  same,  everybody 
looking  up  timetables  for  trains,  and  when  nobody 
was  about,  sliding  over  to  the  bank  and  Cook's  of- 
fices. 

"Was  there  anything  the  matter? 

"Well,  yes,  a  trifle — why,  they  couldn't  find  the 
Pope! 

"It  was  an  enemy  who  had  done  it — the  work  of 
the  Austrians,  the  Jews,  the  Greeks— anything  but 
what  had  really  happened.  Brother  Christopher 
had  done  exactly  what  he  said.  You  understand? 
No  one  had  thought  of  that.  He  had  committed 
the  sin  of  sins.  He  had  taken  off  his  tiara,  laid  down 
his  official  staff— and  shaken  off  the  dust  of  Rome 
from  his  feet. 


THE  EMPTY  CHAIR  OF  PETER  57 

"But  Temi,  the  ex-secretary,  was  quick.  He  had 
always  kept  up  some  sort  of  an  understanding  with 
the  Quirinal  government — on  the  sly,  you  know. 
He  communicated  now,  and  with  prompt  effect. 
The  staff  at  the  telegraph  offices  was  kept  up  all 
night.  Nerto,  the  premier,  did  not  want  a  mad  Pope 
adrift  among  a  population  always  hanging  like  the 
Prophet's  coffin  between  famine  and  revolt — tra- 
ditional revolutionaries,  you  know.  So,  all  the  re- 
sources of  the  civil  government  were  at  Temi's 
disposal — for  a  price. 

"That  was  the  way  they  tracked  him  so  quick. 
You  see  a  lost  Pope  is  like  a  first-class  battleship 
which  drags  her  anchors  in  a  crowded  harbour.  It's 
better  to  get  out  of  the  way,  if  you  can.  For  you 
see  he  was  the  Pope.  Nothing  could  alter  that. 
They  had  made  him  Pope  themselves  by  bell,  book, 
and  candle.    There  was  no  getting  out  of  it. 

"And  then  the  world — what  would  it  not  do,  with 
a  real  Pope  for  a  leader?  Why,  take  France  alone — 
all  religious  people  there  were  sullenly  angry  about 
separation,  the  chivying  of  the  teaching  brothers 
and  nursing  sisters — who  could  tell  what  might  not 
happen?  All  Armageddon  on  us  in  a  month,  as  like 
as  not! 

"Temi  did  not  want  this — no  more  did  brisk 
Nerto,  the  Italian  premier.  They  wanted  Pope 
Christopher  the  First  safe  back  in  the  Vatican — 
which,  you  know,  is  not  Italian  territory. 

"  'What  good  would  that  do  if  he  didn't  want  to 
stop?'    My  dear  fellow,  you  are  innocent!    Are  there 


<qp 


58         THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

not  11,000  rooms  there — and  no  questions  asked? 
Indeed  nobody  to  ask  them!  There  would  be  a 
peaceful  popedom — with  no  token  but  signed  docu- 
ments— Terni  giving  audiences  and,  as  it  were,  gen- 
erally 'reigning  in  his  stead,'  as  it  says  in  the  Chron- 
icles of  the  Kings  of  Judah. 

"Altogether  a  very  nice  little  family  arrangement 
— eminently  Italian.  But  unfortunately  for  Terni, 
it  was  upset  by  somebody  down  in  Apulia.  Oh,  I 
don't  know  who — we  shall  hear,  of  course,  one  of 
these  days.    Well,  I  must  be  off!    So  long!" 

And  the  vice-consul  hailed  a  hansom  from  a  win- 
dow and  was  in  it  in  ten  seconds.  He  was  in  London 
without  leave  and  naturally  had  not  much  time  to 
waste. 

But  his  facts  were  all  right.  The  combination  of 
anxious  ecclesiastical  and  civil  bargaining  power,  of 
Vatican  and  Quirinal,  had  undoubtedly  been  sp9iled 
by  someone  down  in  Apulia. 

And  that  someone  was  no  other  than  I,  Lucas 
Cargill,  to  whom  it  falls  to  write  these  things. 


CHAPTER  VI:     SODOM,  GOMORRAH— AND 

LITTLE  ZOAR 

As  may  easily  be  understood,  the  hardest  part  of 
my  task  was  with  the  White  Pope  himself.  It  was 
not  that  he  held  himself  aloof.  Quite  otherwise, 
indeed.  Nor  was  it  distrust  of  a  foreigner.  I  had 
called  him  to  begin  with — "Your  Holiness"  and 
"Holy  Father,"  as  I  thought  was  proper  and  respect- 
ful. But  he  only  smiled  and  denied  both  one  and 
the  other. 

"Call  me  Brother  Christopher,"  he  said,  "there  is 
but  One  Holy — and  it  is  not  I."  Yet  to  the  Roman 
born  or  in  face  of  danger  he  would  hold  stiffly  enough 
to  his  rank.  He  was  the  Pope — the  only  Pope,  the 
successor  of  Peter,  the  Rock,  whose  alone  the  mystic 
keys.  But  to  us  who  were  about  him,  he  was  only 
Brother  Christopher,  a  young  man  of  a  marvellous 
simplicity  and  tenderness. 

I  went  up  to  the  house  of  the  forest-guard  to  give 
Zini's  message.  And  as  I  went  I  wondered.  Should 
I  give  the  meaning  plainly,  and  let  this  strange  un- 
worldly man  act  upon  it,  as  another  would  have 
done?  Or  should  not  I  myself  take  the  initiative? 
If  national  soldiers  under  a  real  general  had  been 
sent  to  lay  hands  on  the  White  Pope,  there  had 

59 


60         THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

been  some  unnatural  alliance  between  these  sworn 
foes,  Vatican  and  Quirinal. 

I  resolved  to  be  worldly  minded  for  him.  We 
must  head  for  the  sea.  We  must  watch  for  an  Eng- 
lish ship,  or  a  French  or  German  one  at  least. 
Brother  Christopher  would  be  safe  in  any  of  these 
countries  and,  I  thought,  particularly  so  in  our  own 
land  of  complete  toleration. 

With  these  resolves  I  went  slowly  up  to  the  little 
flat-roofed  house  in  the  cleft  of  the  Trasteveran. 
I  found  him  awake  and  out  of  doors.  He  had  gone 
out  gently  and  quietly,  so  that  he  had  not  even 
awakened  his  mother.  He  was  gazing  steadily  out 
upon  the  great  plain  of  the  Capitanate,  grey  and 
purple  like  the  sea,  the  mists  of  morning  fuming 
across  it  light  as  thought,  with  Adria  smudged  in 
indigo  beyond  it,  all  quavering  and  thrumming 
through  the  dense  dusty  air  like  the  string  of  a 
'cello  plucked  at  with  the  finger. 

"We  must  be  up  and  moving,"  I  said,  "the  troops 
are  closing  round  us." 

"We  will  stay  here  yet  a  while,"  he  answered, 
looking  at  me  with  the  particularly  sweet  smile, 
"there  is  breath  and  time  and  space  on  the  moun- 
tain.   I  have  need  to  meditate  a  little." 

"But  the  troops,"  I  urged,  "the  general ?" 

"They  will  do  us  no  harm!"  he  said  with  a  quiet 
certainty,  and  though  he  said  no  word  I  knew  some- 
how that  he  desired  to  be  left  alone.  It  was  no  use 
saying  what  I  thought.  These  Italian  troops  would 
by  no  means  spare  the  New  Pope.    They  would  come 


SODOM  AND  GOMORRAH  61 

up  after  Zini  and  his  bandits.  They  would  settle 
my  affair  out  of  hand  as  quick  as  half  a  dozen  rifle 
bullets  would  do  it,  for  mixing  myself  with  what 
did  not  concern  me.  Then  finding  the  White  Pope, 
they  would  hand  him  over  to  the  Vatican — there,  at 
the  best,  to  be  kept  prisoner  for  life. 

My  clear  duty  was  to  see  Zini. 

"You  do  not  want  to  be  taken  and  hanged — ^you 
and  your  men?"  I  asked  him. 

He  lifted  his  eyes  to  my  face  with  a  solemn 
twinkle  in  the  comer  of  one  eye. 

"It  is  the  grace  I  expect,"  said  he.  "So  be  it, 
Amen!    But  not  quite  yet." 

"How  many  men  have  you,  Zini,  my  friend?"  I 
said. 

"It  is  not  how  many  men  I  have,  but  for  how 
many  can  I  find  bread  and  wine  on  the  Trasteveran, 
if  the  King's  soldiers  surround  us.  As  to  numbers 
I  could  have  every  man  in  the  country  at  a  pinch." 

"But  how  many?" 

He  thought  a  little. 

"I  could  keep  two  hundred  for  ten  days,"  he  an- 
swered simply.  It  was  not  a  difiicult  problem  in 
mental  arithmetic. 

"Then  do  so,"  said  I.  But  he  kept  his  eyes  on  me, 
demanding  a  reason. 

"It  is  his  will,"  I  said,  jerking  a  thumb  in  the 
direction  of  the  silent  figure  in  front  of  the  house 
of  the  forest  guard,  "he  wants  time  to  think." 

Zini  the  Brigand  nodded  with  quick  Italian  per- 
ception— infinitely  quicker  than  mine. 


62         THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

"He  shall  have  it!"  he  aflSrmed.  And  the  thing 
was  settled.    Then  he  turned  sharply. 

"Tell  me,"  he  whispered,  "is  he  mad — or  a  god?" 

"Neither,"  I  answered,  "only  a  man  who  is  trying 
to  be  like  Mother  Mary's  Son ! " 

Zini  shook  his  head.  He  felt  I  was  keeping  some- 
thing from  him.  But  he  had  no  resentment.  It  was 
right  that  I  should  not  tell  him — not  yet  at  least. 
And,  with  the  mystery  of  the  White  Pope  on  his 
imagination,  he  could  the  more  easily  explain  mat- 
ters to  his  followers.  A  god  of  their  own  to  j&ght 
for — against  the  priests  and  the  soldiers  coming  to 
take  Him  from  them — why,  that  would  raise  all  the 
Capitanate  as  with  one  shattering  bugle-call. 

Now  the  Trasteveran  was  a  natural  fortress.  Line 
after  line  of  intrenchment  below,  each  to  be  carried 
over  a  myriad  of  scattered  blocks.  Behind  only  the 
wild  shattering  heave  of  the  volcanic  hills,  with 
ravines,  caves,  dog-tracks  and  smuggler-tracks.  As 
Zini  had  said,  the  provend  was  the  chief  difficulty. 
The  low  country  could  be  blocked,  and  to  bring  up 
the  macaroni  through  the  hills  was  a  serious  matter. 

Still  Zini's  Holy  Man  must  have  time  to  meditate. 
He  should  have  it  too,  cost  what  it  might. 

Now  the  mountaineer  of  the  Trasteveran  takes 
to  irregular  fighting  as  a  duck  to  water.  He  dates 
his  golden  age  from  1861,  the  year  of  Garibaldi's 
Red-shirts.  Ah,  these  were  fine  times  then,  no  mat- 
ter on  which  side  one  started  out.  Fine  times  in- 
deed, and  no  questions  asked. 

Zini's  mountaineers  were  as  ready  still,  but  the 


SODOM  AND  GOMORRAH  63 

opportunity  did  not  often  occur.  It  was,  of  course, 
a  different  thing  fighting  Italian  troops  under  Gen- 
eral Cipriano,  ex-inspector  of  prisons  and  Garibald- 
ian  veteran,  from  potting  Austrians  over  one  ridge 
and  Neapolitan  Bourbons  over  the  other. 

Moreover,  during  these  last  years,  something  had 
gone  wrong  with  the  Heel  of  the  Boot.  It  had 
grown  as  bad  as  the  toe — or  even  Sicily.  Earth- 
quake had  succeded  earthquake,  ever  since  the  great 
outburst  at  Etna  five  years  ago.  The  world  had 
changed  somehow.  The  priests  no  longer  did  their 
duty.  They  even  refused  to  give  absolution  for  kill- 
ing your  lawful  man  in  a  blood-feud — yes,  some- 
times as  long  as  from  Martinmas  to  Passion  Week. 
Think  of  that!  Small  wonder  that  the  Tresteveran 
was  rent  with  earthquake  rifts  and  all  aglow  at 
nights  with  the  skarrow  of  fumerolles.  It  was  a 
strange  new  world  altogether.  Only  the  mountain 
itself  on  which  we  stood  remained  firm  and  fixed 
when  all  the  universe  (that  is  of  the  Abruzzi)  reeled 
to  and  fro  like  a  drunken  man. 

Zini  laughed  at  the  inhabitants  of  the  shaken 
districts.  "Dwellers  among  the  canebrakes,"  he 
called  them.  For  only  on  the  deep-rooted  Traste- 
veran  dared  men  to  abide  in  their  houses  of  stone, 
ever  since  the  terrible  rift  which  opened  deep  into 
Etna,  when  the  world  itself  was  well-nigh  burst 
asunder  by  the  sea  rushing  in  to  cool  the  burning 
bowels  of  the  mountain.  Ah,  it  had  been  a  terrible 
time,  let  no  man  deny  itr— these  last  days  of  Pius 
the  Tenth.     But  though  they  on  the  Trasteveran 


64         THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

kneeled  and  trembled  when  they  saw  the  smoke  of 
Sicily's  crumbling  cities  go  up  to  the  heavens  like 
to  the  reek  of  Sodom,  they  soon  gat  their  courage 
together  again,  and  could  even  laugh.  These  things 
touched  them  not.  Their  piety,  their  Father  Vergas, 
their  good  standing  with  the  Holy  Virgin  and  Santa 
Apollinaris  of  Appiano,  had  done  this  for  them. 
And  now,  to  crown  all,  the  Holy  Man  of  all  Holy 
Men — the  White  Pope  himself,  recently  crowned  in 
Rome,  had  chosen  their  mountain  upon  which  to 
begin  his  crusade  against  the  purse-proud  and  the 
kings  of  the  earth !  How  angry  they  would  be  down 
Lecce  way!  There  was  a  chuckling  joy  in  that 
thought. 

And  so  Zini  drew  put  his  men,  on  the  whole,  very 
well  content. 


CHAPTER  VII:     "NOT  PEACE  BUT  A 

SWORD" 

From  this  time  forth  we  waded  knee-deep  among 
the  raw  stuff  of  miracle.  I  do  not  attempt  to  ex- 
plain. For  myself  I  used  not  to  believe  those  in  the 
Bible,  or  at  least  I  turned  the  comer  of  an  unsatis- 
factory explanation  as  fast  as  might  be,  so  as  to  get 
away  from  them  with  some  intellectual  self-respect. 

So  I  am  certainly  not  going  to  argue  now.  There 
never  was  less  need.  I  only  take  it  upon  me  to  tell 
what  I  saw,  which  (added  to  what  had  been  told 
them)  was  pretty  much  what  the  Taxgatherer,  the 
Travelling  Companion,  the  Physician,  and  the  High 
Priest's  cousin  must  have  done,  when  in  the  Earliest 
Days  they  began  to  think  things  over  and  set  pen 
to  parchment. 

But  these  things  I  saw — at  least  all  the  miracle 
part  of  them.  It  might,  of  course,  be  all  coincidence 
— I  have  heard  it  so  argued.  Only  it  happened 
thus — and  not  otherwise.  While  after  all,  what 
could  be  more  miraculous  than  any  single  part  of  the 
life  of  Brother  Christopher? 

Now  I  did  not  attempt  any  gaUant  thing.  On 
the  contrary  I  stayed  high  up  on  the  Trasteveran — 
to  look  after  the  White  Pope.    And  with  a  prism 

65 


66         THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

binocular  of  special  magnification  I  watched  care- 
fully the  first  assault  of  the  mountain. 

Looking  down  from  high  above  I  could  see  Zini's 
men,  each  with  his  rifle  cuddled  to  his  hairy  cheek, 
lying  flat  behind  his  chosen  rock.  I  could  even  make 
out  the  brown  transverse  of  the  cartridge-belts  over 
their  shoulders.  Then  they  had  red  sashes  girding 
their  waists — dangerous  indeed,  that  splash  of  arro- 
gant colour,  but,  in  the  girls'  eyes,  comely.  So  there 
was  not  a  man  of  them  would  have  taken  off  his  sash 
for  twice  the  danger.  For  death  to  the  South  Italian 
is  a  pretty  lady  with  a  tragic  smile,  and  when  he 
flirts  with  her  (which  he  does  willingly)  he  puts  on 
his  best  things  to  do  her  honour. 

The  Italian  troops  under  Cipriano  knew  their 
business.  At  any  rate  their  General  did.  An  old 
Garibaldian  who  had  fought  all  through  the  mixed 
business  of  Sicily,  and  had  worked  across  the  Traste- 
veran,  hanging  on  with  a  score  or  two  of  Milanese 
red-shirts  to  the  tail  of  the  retiring  legions  of  Bomba, 
was  hardly  like  to  make  any  mistake — that  is,  so 
far  as  he  knew.  He  had  all  fixed  and  ready  for  Zini 
and  his  ex-brigands.  What  he  did  not  calculate 
upon  was  the  White  Pope.  Also,  in  a  modest  way, 
upon  me,  Lucas  Cargill,  and  my  35  diameter  magnifi- 
cation Aitchison. 

It  was  one  of  those  hot  still  autumn  mornings 
which  sometimes  happen  late  in  Apulia — so  electric 
as  to  give  one  headache,  so  still  that  a  few  big  green 
crickets  clicking  their  wings  sounded  like  applause 
in  a  theatre. 


"NOT  PEACE  BUT  A  SWORD"  67 

Suddenly — crack — crack — crack — in  airy  diminu- 
endo far  below.  Zini  was  at  it.  His  Mausers  were 
making  gaps  in  the  slim  dark-blue  eel  of  the  regular 
troops  as  they  skipped  right  and  left  to  take  cover. 
Presently  the  response  came  with  a  rattle  like  a 
child's  toy  for  scaring  crows.  A  fine  pearly  haze 
arose  in  front,  but  no  smoke  showed.  Both  sides 
were,  of  course,  using  smokeless  powder. 

But  away  to  the  left  I  saw  the  blue  glint  of  a 
fieldpiece  which  they  were  bringing  forward  with 
men  acute-angled  upon  the  drag-ropes.  A  machine 
gun — Maxim  or  other — whirred  from  some  unseen 
vantage-point.  A  ripple  of  uneasiness,  quite  per- 
ceptible, pervaded  the  scarlet-belted  line  of  Zini's 
men.  All  this  was  perhaps  a  little  more  than  they 
had  counted  upon. 

A  skirmish  with  Italian  troops  and  the  mountains 
wide  behind  them  to  escape  to,  they  accounted  all 
in  the  day's  work.  But  field  artillery,  quick-firers, 
and  Maxims!  Clearly  Cipriano  was  not  playing  the 
game. 

Up  to  this  point  the  White  Pope  had  maintained 
his  attitude  of  rapt  meditation.  But  the  ripple  of 
the  firing,  the  "smack"  of  the  quick-firers,  and  the 
rasping  snarl  of  the  machine  guns  gradually  attracted 
his  attention. 

He  advanced  towards  me,  his  white  dress  with 
many  capes  clinging  about  his  lean  figure,  and  the 
little  white  skull-cap  perched  on  his  locks  of  early 
grey.    I  could  see  that  his  mother  had  been  at  work 


68         THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

during  the  night.  All  was  spotless  as  for  the  recep- 
tion of  a  pilgrimage  in  the  Hall  of  Audience. 

But  there  was  an  anxious  expression  on  his  face. 

"What  are  these  men  doing  down  there?"  he 
asked  me,  speaking  abruptly  and,  contrary  to  his 
habit,  ahnost  peremptorily. 

"They  are  fighting,"  I  said,  "fighting  for  you!" 

"For  me?"  he  cried,  lifting  up  his  hands,  "it  must 
not  be.  I  have  come  to  bring  peace  on  earth,  and  lo, 
it  is  a  sword!"    • 

And  he  would  have  set  ofif  down  the  mountain 
then  and  there,  but  taking  hold  of  his  garments 
firmly  (I  was  sitting  with  my  prism  glass  in  my 
hands)  I  told  him  plainly  that  too  much  was  at 
stake.  He  must  not  go  down.  He  should  not  go 
down.  His  enemies  had  sent  to  snare  him.  Already 
in  Rome  they  discounted  their  success.  They  might 
kill — they  would  certainly  imprison  him  for  life. 
But  he  only  smiled  at  my  words  as  at  the  gambols 
and  coaxings  of  a  child.  His  long  nervous  hands 
stretched  over  my  Protestant  head  the  Holy  Father's 
blessing. 

"Come  with  me,"  he  said,  "it  is  good  that  you 
should  see.^' 

Now  it  was  most  curious  how,  though  he  had  laid 
aside  the  paraphernalia  and  ritual  of  the  Church 
Catholic  and  Roman,  he  kept  the  mark  of  her  train- 
ing in  his  body.  He  spread  his  hands,  and  it  was 
as  if  an  angel  blessed  a  kneeling  congregation.  He 
dropped  his  hand  to  his  girdle,  and  it  was  as  if  he 
felt  for  the  Keys  that  open  and  shut  mystically.    On 


"NOT  PEACE  BUT  A  SWORD"  69 

his  head  and  about  it  the  mild  aureole  of  his  simple 
goodness  made  an  indefinable  tiara.  And  when  he 
looked  into  your  eyes  and  smiled,  you  knew  how  the 
Woman  felt  when  That  Other  said,  "Neither  do  I 
condemn  thee — go  and  sin  no  more!" 

I  dropped  my  glass  back  into  its  case,  and  we  went 
down  the  mountain  together,  the  White  Pope,  as 
usual,  a  pace  in  front. 

"Whizz-clip r  A  fragment  neatly  chipped  from 
a  rock  pinched  me  on  the  cheek,  and  I  knew  we  were 
on  the  fire  zone.  All  of  a  sudden  there  were  also 
many  great  bees  about,  which,  while  they  were  in 
the  air,  buzzed  eternally — but  as  soon  as  they 
alighted  rooted  about  like  so  many  moles  in  a  hurry, 
throwing  up  little  spurts  of  earth  and  gravel. 

I  wished  much  to  get  out  of  all  this.  But  the 
White  Pope  moved  serenely  through  the  thick  of  the 
leaden  and  aluminium  hive  in  flight,  his  white  dresa 
as  good  a  target  as  any  marksman  could  desire, 
against  the  purples  and  brownish  greys  of  the 
Trasteveran. 

I  had  thought  that  he  would  stop  when  he  came 
to  the  natural  rampart  behind  which  Zini  and  his 
men  were  sheltering.  But  he  went  calmly  up,  bend- 
ing a  little  forward  with  the  slope.  Then  he  topped 
the  glacis  and  held  up  his  hand.  The  Italians  were 
already  at  close  range.  They  had  discovered  the 
weakness  of  Zini's  numbers,  and  were  preparing  to 
rush  the  place  with  the  bayonet. 

The  White  Pope  stood  alone,  taller,  as  it  seemed, 
than  any  human  figure.    Without  meaning  it  I  some- 


70         THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

how  followed  him  till  I  too  fronted  the  storm.  The 
bullets  were  flying  as  thick  as  when  Euroclydon  in 
his  wintry  rage  lashes  Adria  into  foam  with  crash 
on  crash  of  thunderous  hail. 

Yet  they  did  not  touch  us.  Nothing  harmed  a 
hair  of  our  heads,  and  presently  there  came  a  kind 
of  gladness  into  my  heart,  a  belief  in  his  Star, 
Naught  could  touch  the  White  Pope  or  me  his  fol- 
lower. Indeed,  a  moment  or  two  after  his  appear- 
ance the  firing  ceased  as  by  a  marvel.  I  think  it  was 
that  lifted  hand,  and  the  two  fingers  outstretched  in 
blessing. 

As  if  in  answer  to  the  white  figure  of  Peace  stand- 
ing so  stilly  upon  the  perilous  verge  of  the  Traste- 
veran,  a  flag  of  truce  fluttered  out  from  the  midst  of 
the  oncoming  Bersaglieri.  I  could  see  their  curious 
hats  with  the  cocks'  feathers  appear  peeping  from 
various  shelters  not  fifty  yards  away.  A  man  on 
horseback  rode  up,  and  from  the  hands  of  a  sergeant 
took  the  lance  with  the  white  signalling  pennon.  He 
rode  forward  towards  us.  It  was  General  Cipriano 
himself. 


CHAPTER  VIII:     THE  RAW  STUFF  OF 

MIRACLE 

A  HANDSOME  man  he  was,  very  soldierly.  A  slim 
athletic  figure  just  settling  into  manlier  girth — long 
white  moustaches,  more  English  than  Italian  in  their 
droop— that  was  General  Victor  Cipriano.  And  be- 
hind him,  not  to  be  retarded,  came  his  famous 
orderly  (so  called  because  he  was  reputed  to  give  his 
master  orders)  by  name  Stephano,  who  had  been 
with  him  since  he  was  a  young  officer — and  now,  in 
these  latter  days  inspired  much  more  awe  than  did 
his  master. 

Under  that  strange  morning  sky  they  stood  face 
to  face^ — world-famous  general  and  this  new  sort  of 
Pope,  the  like  of  whom  the  world  had  never  seen. 
He  kept  his  right  hand  extended.  The  other  clasped 
the  ivory  crucifix.  Involuntarily  the  two  soldiers  on 
horseback  bowed  their  heads.  But  the  eye  of  Brother 
Christopher  called  them.  They  were  compelled  to 
look. 

"Come  nearer!"  he  said.  And  then  still  with  the 
same  smile,  "Do  you  seek  me?"  he  added,  "I  am 
the  Pope  Christopher!" 

Perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  Cipriano 
faltered  in  speech. 

71  "' 


72         THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

"It  is  my  orders,"  he  said  apologetically.  He 
handed  the  white  flag  of  truce  to  the  orderly,  a  hale 
clean-shaven  man  with  bushy  eyebrows  and  the 
compressed  lips  which  made  him,  though  nominally 
but  a  sergeant-adjutant,  more  arbitrary  than  any 
colonel  in  the  command. 

"And  why  do  ye  seek  me,  the  Elected  and  En- 
throned Father  of  all  the  Faithful,  with  bright 
swords  and  instruments  of  war?" 

Victor  Cipriano  again  hung  his  head. 

"I  cannot  tell,"  he  said,  sadly,  "these  are  my 
orders.  I  was  bidden  to  take  you  safely  and  bring 
you  myself  to  Rome!" 

A  furious  gust  of  firing  from  a  certain  rugged  little 
hill,  which  old  South  African  experiences  had  taught 
me  to  call  a  "kopje."  The  general  turned  angrily 
to  his  orderly  as  the  bullets  whizzed  about  us.  "Who 
are  these?"  he  demanded,  "I  have  no  troops  of  mine 
on  that  hill!" 

"I  will  go  and  see,"  cried  Stephano,  the  orderly. 
And  turning  his  horse  as  on  a  pivot,  he  galloped  off. 
In  a  couple  of  minutes  he  was  back,  his  ruddy  face 
purple  with  indignation. 

"The  accursed  innkeeper  Peter  Vecchia,"  he  cried, 
"and  a  band  of  the  most  unholy  ruffians  in  all  Apulia, 
the  foul  grandchildren  of  the  Silver  Skull.  They 
swear  that  there  is  a  reward  for — for — this  man  who 
calls  himself  the  Pope — and — that  they  will  have 
him  dead  or  alive." 

The  general  flushed  suddenly. 

"Bid  Bixio  take  two  companies,  with  a  Maxim, 


THE  RAW  STUFF  OF  MIRACLE  73 

and  clear  them  out!"    Now  he  spoke  brusquely  like 
a  commander. 

But  the  uplifted  hand  of  the  White  Pope  stayed 
them  both,  for,  it  might  be,  the  fraction  of  a  second. 

''Stay  where  you  are!"  said  the  White  Pope. 
There  fell  a  compulsion  on  the  two  men.  But  the 
less  subtle  spirit  broke  through  the  spiritual  bond- 
age.   Stephano  cast  a  look  of  reproach  at  his  master. 

"You  can  do  as  you  like,"  he  said,  roughly,  "if 
you  choose  to  throw  your  orders  to  the  winds,  I  shall 
obey  mine.  In  five  mintues  I  will  have  Bixio  at  the 
throat  of  yonder  innkeeper  and  his  scarecrow  crew." 

And  setting  spurs  to  his  horse  he  was  off  again  like 
the  wind. 

The  three  of  us  stood  quiet.  Barring  the  sounds 
of  war,  I  never  knew  a  more  dreamlike  morning. 
There  was  a  strange  pearl-grey  haze  hiding  the  top 
of  the  mountain  above,  something  like  brownish 
dust  settling  over  the  plain — and  on  all  of  us  that 
infamous  headache,  a  heavy,  dull,  apparently  cause- 
less oppression,  felt  more  in  the  cerebellum  than 
about  the  brow  and  temples.  Some  sort  of  electric- 
ity, doubtless,  but  at  the  time  none  of  us  could  name 
a  cause. 

Likewise  there  was  upon  everyone  a  sense  of  some- 
thing particular  iraimediately  impending.  The  gaze, 
the  gait  were  alike  arrested.  We  stood  and  stared 
as  when  at  a  way-station  the  through  express  is 
signalled  and  we  hear  afar  the  rocking  rumble  of  her 
coming. 

The  White  Pope  motioned  to  the  general. 


74         THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

"Dismount  and  come  hither!"  he  said,  quietly. 

There  was  a  struggle  of  a  moment.  A  man's 
future  stood  on  tiptoe.  But  Victor  Cipriano  yielded, 
dismounted,  and  letting  his  white  charger  go  free, 
walked  composedly  towards  us.  As  for  me,  I  had. my 
eyes  at  the  prism  glass.  The  orderly  had  reached 
Bixio.  I  could  see  the  surprise  on  the  colonel's  face 
as  he  received  the  message — the  smart  whirl  of  the 
Maxim,  and  then  the  men  creeping  towards  Peter 
Vecchia's  "kopje,"  taking  cover  so  long  as  they  could 
get  it. 

Then  came  the  miracle — if  it  be  a  miracle  for  a 
perfectly  natural  thing  to  happen  in  the  nick  of 
time. 

A  pearly  grey  cloud,  as  if  blown  softly  from  the 
lips  of  a  giant  smoker,  belted  the  top  of  the  Traste- 
veran,  somewhat  rainbowish  at  the  edges,  like  a 
moon-halo.  The  oppression  increased  until  I  could 
hear  the  pulses  tick  in  my  ears. 

A  little  below  me  Cipriano  and  the  White  Pope 
stood  eyeing  one  another.  But  there  was  no  battle 
of  eyes  between  them  any  more.  It  was,  as  I  knew 
full  well.  Master  and  servant.  For  I  too  had  been 
through  that  experience. 

"Stop  these  men  of  yours!"  cried  the  White  Pope. 
But  the  general  only  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"They  are  far  beyond  the  reach  of  my  voice  now," 
he  said.    "Bixio  will  take  that  hill  or  die!" 

"Then  they  shall  not  die!"  said  the  White  Pope. 
"Neither  Bixio  nor  another.    It  must  not  be!" 

And  he  lifted  up  his  voice  which  could  be  soft  as 


THE  RAW  STUFF  OF  MIRACLE  75 

running  water,  as  the  singing  of  birds,  and  lo!  it 
became  a  trumpet  ringing  over  the  plain. 

"Men  of  the  fifth  regiment— HALT— by  order  of 
General  Cipriano ! " 

As  the  strong  lingering  vowels  died  on  the  heavy 
air  they  stood  still,  and  that  was  marvel  enough. 
But  to  me  the  true  wonder  was  how  he  knew  that 
Bixio's  battalion  belonged  to  the  fifth  regiment. 
Also  the  name  of  the  Italian  general.  Certainly  I 
had  not  told  him,  and  I  was  ready  to  take  my  oath 
that  nobody  else  had.  But,  as  it  happened,  there 
was  then  small  time  for  me  to  consider  such  details. 

As  to  what  happened  after  that  I  think  I  can  tell 
more  clearly  than  anybody.  The  glass  in  my  hand, 
and  the  headache  lifting  suddenly  gave  a  curious 
temporary  vividness  to  my  impressions. 

From  behind  us  there  came  a  heavy  sound  as  of 
great  guns  fired  at  a  distance.  Then  all  suddenly 
I  felt  sick  as  I  am  the  first  day  at  sea.  It  seemed  as 
if  I  were  swung  round  without  turning.  For  I  could 
see  a  black  cloud  shot  with  dancing  fire-balls  crown- 
ing the  top  of  the  Trasteveran,  where  the  curious 
rainbow  halo  had  been.  The  "kopje"  from  which 
Peter  Vecchia's  bandits  were  still  firing  fitfully  stood 
out  black  against  a  kind  of  steely  dawn — unpolished 
steel,  that  is.  I  could  see  Bixio's  men  one  by  one 
through  my  glass  and  the  artillery  men  about  the 
feeder  of  the  Maxim. 

Then  something  went  by  like  the  Angel  of  Death 
himself.  From  the  summit  of  the  Trasteveran  a 
dense  black  cloud  shot  down  the  slopes,  accompanied 


76         THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

by  terrific  thunderings  and  earth-shakings.  It  went 
as  fast  as  a  shell  from  a  twelve-inch  gun,  that  is,  a 
mile  a  second.  Little  plumes  of  fire,  feathery-like 
aquarium  sea-weeds  or  tailed-like  polywogs,  danced 
aU  about  the  dense  rushing  cloud,  or  were  thrown 
a  little  way  in  the  air  to  descend  pear-shaped  like 
sparklets  from  an  exploding  rocket.  But  all  was 
over  in  three  or  four  ticks  of  the  clock.  It  was  as  if 
the  mountain  had  fired  a  huge  gun  at  the  plain. 

We  saw  a  white  house  covered.  The  next  moment 
there  was  no  white  house.  The  "kopje"  was  en- 
veloped by  the  rushing  cloud.  Its  clean-cut  rocky 
outline  wavered.  Its  very  mass  disintegrated  as  we 
looked.  The  breath  of  God  blew  upon  it  and  it  was 
not.  No,  nor  yet  Peter  Vecchia  and  his  carrion 
pack.  The  Trasteveran  had  been  dormant  for  a 
hundred  years,  they  said,  only  to  wake  thus  sud- 
denly on  that  morn  of  glary  heat,  and  in  the  utmost 
need  of  the  White  Pope.  That  was  the  miracle  of  it. 
Though,  it  must  be  said,  he  himself  saw  not  any. 

He  saw  no  wonder  in  anything.  His  own  soul  was 
the  only  wonder,  in  as  much  as  God  dwelt  there — 
as,  according  to  him.  He  did,  latent  for  the  most  part, 
in  that  of  every  human  creature. 

So  close  had  come  the  sudden  destruction  from 
the  peak  of  the  Trasteveran  that,  as  at  the  destruc- 
tion of  St.  Pierre,  a  fan-shaped  space  with  the  apex 
to  the  summit  of  the  volcano  was  marked  as  with 
ink.  The  mouth  of  Bixio's  Maxim  was  fused  and 
twisted  like  lead  pipe,  while  in  the  feed  ribbon  not  a 
cartridge  was  exploded. 


THE  RAW  STUFF  OF  MIRACLE  77 

The  Italian  soldiers  stood  irresolute,  save  Bixio's 
men,  who,  it  is  probable,  had  been  saved  by  throwing 
themselves  on  their  faces.  Bixio  himself  alone  had 
stood,  erect.  The  hand  that  had  held  the  pointing 
sword  was  burned  and  blistered.  The  blade  itself 
had  vanished,  melted,  vaporised.  He  cast  down  the 
basket  hilt  angrily,  like  a  man  who  unexpectedly 
handles  hot  metal  in  a  smithy. 

Then  by  some  subtle  connection  of  idea  the  anger 
of  the  troops  turned  upon  the  White  Pope.  Per- 
sonally I  should  have  expected  awe — worship  even. 
But  it  was  not  so.  Heedless  of  their  officers,  they 
would  have  rushed  upon  us  where  we  stood.  I  saw 
the  bayonets  glitter  along  the  lines.  A  wild  cry 
went  up.  At  that  moment  they  would  certainly  have 
slain  the  White  Pope,  perhaps  also  their  General, 
who  as  instinctively  unsheathed  his  sword  to  defend 
his  new  Master,  the  man  in  the  white  raiment. 

Brother  Christopher  still  stood  with  his  hand  in 
the  attitude  of  blessing.  Every  moment  I  expected 
some  of  the  fleeter-footed  Bersaglieri  to  be  amongst 
us,  and  I  unslung  my  holstered  Mauser  pistol  to 
make  as  good  a  fight  as  I  could. 

Then  the  hand  of  the  White  Pope  drooped.  His 
fore-finger  seemed  slowly  to  trace  a  line  along  the 
plain  in  front  of  us — I  say  seemed,  for  I  cannot  be 
sure  of  more  than  that.  I  myself,  as  I  have  averred 
already,  did  not  believe  in  miracles.  There  came 
again  the  undulating  movement,  as  if  the  solid  land 
had  grown  deceitfully  fluid.    I  was  physically  sick. 


78         THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

but  astonishment  kept  me  on  foot  and  agape  with 
the  marvel. 

Right  in  the  path  of  the  advancing  troops,  and 
within  a  dozen  yards  of  their  pioneers,  the  sohd 
earth  cracked,  parted,  and  yawned  in  a  winding 
gash,  riven  asunder  from  t«n  to  thirty  and  forty 
feet  across — and  bottomless,  so  far  as  we  could  see. 

The  blue-coated  Italians  clutched  each  other  away 
from  the  sudden  gulf.  Some  in  the  front  rank  let 
go  their  rifles,  which  clattered,  bayonet  and  all,  into 
the  depths.  Some  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  again 
and  again.  Others  kneeled  to  the  white  figure  stand- 
ing motionless  on  the  opposite  brink.  Now  at  last 
they  counted  him  not  less  than  divine — or  perhaps, 
what  they  feared  more,  diabolic. 

But  through  them,  as  if  in  the  heat  of  a  cavalry 
charge,  when  it  was  needful  to  push  his  horse  faster 
than  the  fastest,  came  Stephano,  the  General's 
orderly.  Luckily  it  was  the  narrowest  point  of  the 
great  earthquake  fissure  which  he  set  his  beast  to 
leap.  Our  hearts  stood  still.  At  least  mine  did.  I 
saw  them  both  in  the  air.  Ha,  well  over! — But  the 
hinder  pair  of  shod  hoofs  spurned  a  rattling  cloud  of 
pebbles  and  dust  down  into  the  abyss. 

The  orderly  saluted  gravely. 

"Your  orders.  General?" 

And  with  an  equally  grave  wave  of  the  hand 
Cipriano  referred  him  to  the  White  Pope. 

Without  a  word,  Stephano  saluted  again  and  stood 
waiting  to  take  the  orders  of  his  new  Master. 


CHAPTER  IX:  THE  ROAD  OF  THE  SEA 

Behind  us  the  mountain  still  kept  on  rumbling 
and  thundering. 

"Time  to  get  away!"  muttered  the  General,  glanc- 
ing over  his  shoulder. 

"That  (he  pointed  to  the  rift)  may  not  stop  my 
fellows  long!    Especially  Bixio." 

"But  whither?"  asked  the  priest  Vergas,  who  had 
joined  us,  panting  with  agitation. 

The  White  Pope  moved  his  hand  backward  in  the 
direction  of  the  mountain  top. 

"Thither!"  he  said. 

We  were  all  amazed.  Could  we  walk,  like  the 
three  Hebrew  children,  into  that  spitting,  roaring 
pit  of  abomination  and  fire,  heated  seven  times? 

"There  is  my  mother ! "  said  the  White  Pope.  And 
as  it  was  almost  the  sole  time  I  had  heard  him  call 
her  that,  there  was  a  certain  irony  in  the  fact  that 
she  was  not  there  to  hear. 

Then  the  grey  ashes  began  to  fall,  at  first  lightly 
as  the  beginnmgs  of  a  snowstorm,  then  driving  in 
larger  pieces  as  from  the  back  draught  of  an  express 
engine  rocking  on  a  too  straight  track.  These  were 
the  firstlings  of  that  great  fall  which  during  the  next 
twenty-four  hours  buried  all  the  Trasteveran  under 
a  two  foot  close  cover  of  grey  cindery  ash. 

79 


80         THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

Our  little  "gourbi"  was  still  standing,  and  behind 
it  the  forester's  house  with  the  ashes  swirling  harm- 
lessly in  the  little  courtyard,  and  pouring  away  to 
the  right  down  a  vast  gulley  in  a  sort  of  brown 
spume. 

But  Mary  Orloff  was  safe.  She  stood  at  the  door 
with  a  sort  of  glad  expectancy  in  her  eyes. 

"My  son,  my  son!"  she  cried,  "I  knew  he  would 
come  back  for  me.  Because  this  time  I  obeyed.  I 
stayed  where  I  was,  though  the  earth  was  rent  and 
the  heavens  flamed  like  a  scroll — yet  I  abode,  be- 
cause he  told  me." 

She  fell  on  her  face  at  his  feet,  kissing  them.  But 
he  lifted  the  hand  which  adventured  out  towards  his 
white  robe,  as  if  too  temerariously. 

"Rise,"  he  said  with  a  sweet  insistent  severity, 
"this  is  unseemly.  These  men  have  put  their  lives 
in  peril  for  me,  and  now  we  must  escape,  that  the 
Kingdom  of  God  be  not  hindered.  Rise  immedi- 
ately, Mary  Orloff!" 

She  rose,  but  sure  I  am  that  it  would  have  been 
with  a  gladder  heart,  if  she  had  heard  him  call  her 
"mother"  as  he  had  done  but  a  little  while  agone  on 
the  verge  of  the  rift. 

We  all  heard  this  conversation,  but  only  I,  in  the 
curious  exaltation  of  my  spirits  and  the  clearness 
of  all  my  faculties  which  came  with  the  disappear- 
ance of  the  headache  of  the  morning,  cared  to  ponder 
upon  the  dialogue  of  mother  and  son. 

The  others  stood  dumb  and  astonished  before  the 
marvel  which  they  saw  on  the  other  side.    Just  be- 


THE  ROAD  OF  THE  SEA  81 

hind  the  "gourbi"  stretched  a  huge  trench,  ploughed 
by  the  fiery  share  of  the  volcanic  mountain.  It 
stretched  away  down  as  far  as  one  could  see,  barren, 
smoking  and  bubbling.  It  struck  me  at  the  time  that 
there  must  have  been  some  vaporised  acid  in  the 
blast.  The  country  over  which  it  had  travelled  had 
just  that  fizzling  soda-watery  spume  over  it  which 
we  used  to  make,  when  we  boys  carried  dilute  hydro- 
chloric acid  in  a  phial  to  pour  over  limestone  rock. 
I  do  not  vouch  for  this  as  a  scientific  explanation. 
But  to  me  it  certainly  looked  like  it. 

There  were  four  of  us  together — the  White  Pope, 
Mary  Orloff,  Vergas  the  priest,  and  myself.  General 
Cipriano  and  his  orderly,  together  with  Zini  and 
about  twenty  men,  came  a  little  way  behind.  The 
rest  had  scattered  anyhow  by  paths  best  known  to 
themselves.  And  now  we  had  to  decide  what  was 
next  to  be  done. 

There  were  the  mountains  behind  us,  certainly. 
But  who  was  to  guide  us?  Of  them  I  knew  nothing. 
Even  Vergas,  who  in  his  goatherd  days  had  been 
something  of  a  contrabandist,  was  only  acquainted 
with  a  path  or  two,  any  one  of  which  would  doubt- 
less conduct  us  into  another  pouch  of  that  wide  net 
which  the  Italiano-Vaticanate  authorities  were 
spreading  for  us.  We  looked  at  one  another,  in- 
stinctively seeking  the  man  of  council.  We  found 
him  in  General  Victor  Cipriano.  Quite  naturally 
he  took  the  command  of  the  small  company  attached 
to  the  fortunes  of  the  White  Pope^ — the  band  Brother 
Christopher  had  gathered  for  himself,  without  selec- 


82         THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

tion  or  intent,  almost  as  they  had  come  to  his  hand — 
drunken  priest,  foreign  dawdler,  notable  general,  and 
cut-throat  bandit  of  the  Trasteveran. 

"We  had  better  get  away  from  here,"  said  the 
General,  wrinkling  his  eyes  and  peering  beneath  his 
hand.  "I  know  this  cursed  earthqliake  country 
studded  with  volcanoes  that  blow  their  heads  off 
like  champagne  in  hot  weather.  We  must  get  to 
the  sea." 

The  White  Pope  manifested  a  desire  to  go  down 
and  speak  with  the  men  who  had  been  his  pursuers, 
but  Cipriano  answered  him  gravely. 

"Holy  Father,"  he  replied  firmly,  "I  know  that  you 
are  the  true  Pope.  You  have  called  me  and  I  have 
come.  You  are  not  mad.  But  the  thing  which  I 
believed  at  once,  it  will  take  some  time  to  convince 
others  of.  Besides  these  men  down  there — Bixio 
even — would  shoot  me  on  the  spot  for  desertion  (I 
do  not  say  they  would  be  wrong).  And  you  they, 
would  carry  to  a  perpetual  prison  in  Rome  where 
decrees  would  be  signed  in  your  name.  Oh,  I  know 
well  what  I  was  sent  here  to  do.  But  I  have  not 
been  on  the  Trasteveran  as  Garibaldi's  advance 
guard  for  nothing.  I  can  lead  you  straight  across 
to  the  sea,  stopping  over  in  safe  farms,  lying  up 
unseen  by  day,  and  travelling  unsuspected  by  night. 
You  must  leave  Italy,  Holy  Father!  They  are  not 
ready  yet  for  the  Word.  You  must  preach  the  Gos- 
pel (I  have  heard  concerning  your  teaching)  in  other 
cities  also!" 

"In  other  cities  also!"  murmured  the  White  Pope, 


THE  ROAD  OF  THE  SEA  83 

as  if  to  himself.  And  then  lower,  "Yes,  it  is  the 
Word — in  other  cities  also!" 

"Well,  well,"  he  added,  after  a  pause,  "perhaps 
it  is  better  so — the  burden  is  too  great  for  them, 
the  bonds  too  tight,  the  chains  of  custom  and  myth 
too  ancient.  But  to  leave  Italy!  In  my  heart  I 
never  thought  it — and  I  a  Pope!" 

"The  General  is  right,"  I  said,  "there  is  no  safety 
for  us  in  Italy  or  any  land  where  they  weigh  the 
State  in  one  balance,  and  the  Church  in  another — 
the  politicians  taking  a  little  from  one  and  giving  it 
to  the  other  as  a  makeweight,  that  neither  become 
too  strong." 

"I  know — I  know,"  said  the  White  Pope,  "I  have 
been  where  men  sacrifice  to  Ashtaroth.  Mammon 
too  is  a  great  god.  Mars  hath  slain  his  hecatombs. 
But  the  god  who  does  the  greatest  Evil  is  this  god 
of  Politics." 

Now  I  would  have  liked  to  have  talked  this  over 
with  the  White  Pope.  For  I  too  had  noticed  that 
in  what  land  soever  one  of  my  own  profession  (that 
of  letters)  so  much  as  touches  pohtics  with  his  little 
finger,  he  is  a  lost  man.  The  fine  gold  of  his  art 
turns  to  withered  leaves.  But  General  Cipriano, 
who  cared  for  none  of  these  things,  was  before  me. 

"My  Father,"  he  said,  baring  his  head,  "there  is 
no  time  to  stay.  The  mountain  may  break  out 
again.  Our  first  stage  is  long.  But  friend  Zini  there, 
who  was  trying  his  Mausers  upon  me  but  a  little 
while  ago,  will  accompany  us,  and  his  men  will  carry 
anything  that  is  necessary." 


84  THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

For  me  I  had  little  to  take.  My  money  was  in 
Bank  of  England  notes,  and  a  few  dirty  Italian 
"twenties"  carried  about  my  waist  in  a  canvas  belt. 
As  for  the  White  Pope,  he  had  nothing  whatever, 
not  so  much  as  a  spare  pair  of  sandals.  But  Mary 
Orloff  appeared  with  a  great  bundle,  done  up  in  the 
red  and  grey  handkerchief  which  had  once  been  in 
the  possession  of  Peter  Vecchia.  But  there  is  small 
probability  that  this  contained  her  own  wardrobe. 

To  the  first  farm  we  walked  in  Indian  file,  skirting 
the  fuming  desolate  country  of  the  Trasteveran, 
crossing  painfully  the  beds  of  dried-up  rivers,  and 
gradually  getting  quit  of  the  difficult  district  of  the 
ash-fall.  For  the  wind  had  blown  steadily  towards 
the  plains,  and  there  was  little  depth  of  cinders,  after 
a  mile  or  so  among  the  nether  hills. 

At  the  first  farm,  which  was  large  and  with  spa- 
cious outbuildings,  Cipriano  disappeared  for  a  few 
minutes,  and  when  presently  he  came  with  the 
proprietor,  together  they  opened  the  door  of  the 
stable,  and  took  therefrom  a  good  horse  of  the  true 
Apulian  breed,  better  than  those  of  Tuscany.  The 
farmer  kneeled  and  besought  a  blessing  from  the 
White  Pope,  fervently  kissing  the  hem  of  his  robe, 
which  Mary  Orloff  had  only  just  finished  brushing, 
after  the  clinging  grey  of  the  ash-fringe. 

Then  without  the  least  direction  or  hint  from  any 
of  us.  Brother  Christopher  led  the  way,  as  was  in- 
deed his  habit.  General  Cipriano  and  I  walked 
together,  and  to  me  he  opened  out  his  plans.  First, 
however,  I  told  him  all  that  had  happened  on  the 


THE  ROAD  OF  THE  SEA  85 

Trasteveran,  from  the  first  moment  I  had  seen  the 
White  Pope  emerge  through  the  mists  of  morning 
into  my  hfe. 

"This  will  we  do,"  he  said,  after  listening  with 
grave  deliberation,  "I  have  a  friend  on  the  Tremiti 
Islands  near  the  Point  of  Gargano — yes,  a  friend  of 
long  years,  a  lighthouse  keeper  living  there  with  his 
wife. 

"I  saved  his  life — or  his  wife's  life — or  perhaps 
both.  He  was  a  manslayer,  but — I  must  tell  you  the 
story,  so  that  you  may  know  to  what  we  are  going. 
And — I  doubt  whether  God  ever  made  a  better 
woman  than  Maria  Perrone,  his  wife.  Ah,  it  is  all 
so  long  ago.  I  was  young  then,  but  I  have  never 
lost  sight  of  them  since." 

And  he  began  his  story,  that  of  Maria  Perrone, 
Murderess  and  Saint,  which  I  desire  to  tell  briefly 
here,  because  in  the  story  which  is  to  be  written, 
she  and  her  husband  brought  about  the  escape  of 
the  White  Pope, 


CHAPTER  X:     MURDERESS  AND  SAINT 

It  was  (said  General  Cipriano)  the  year  after  we 
of  Italy  had  final  quittance  of  the  Austrians,  and 
their  accursed  yellow  and  black.  I  had  just  been 
made  a  general — younger  by  twenty  years  than  they 
make  generals  nowadays,  but  even  then,  though  I 
say  it  myself,  with  a  deal  more  experience  in  fighting. 
I  was  no  diplomat  in  the  early  sixties,  nor  had  I  any 
thoughts  of  sitting  in  council  as  Minister  of  War. 
But  nevertheless,  I  was  a  young  general,  still  unmar- 
ried, and  clad  in  the  cavalry  light-blue  and  scarlet, 
with  great  silver  spurs,  which  is  the  most  becoming 
of  all  uniforms — and,  in  consequence  of  these  things, 
I  was  well  enough  pleased  with  myself. 

There  was  in  that  year  little  fighting,  save  of  the 
dangerous,  ungracious  sort  which  consists  in  scour- 
ing the  countryside  after  brigands  of  one's  own  race, 
and  bringing  them  to  the  market-place  of  a  con- 
venient town  to  be  tried  and  shot  by  squads.  Pah ! 
the  work,  though  doubtless  necessary  enough,  left  an 
ill  taste  in  my  mouth  after  Palermo  and  Solferino, 
and,  what  was  best  of  all,  clearing  the  South  with 
Garibaldi's  red-shirts. 

After  the  Government  had  quieted  Apulia,  and 
generally  polished  up  "the  heel  of  the  boot,"  for  my 

86 


MURDERESS  AND  SAINT  87 

sins  they  made  me  Inspector  of  Prisons — and  a 
dreary  job  it  was.    It  went  like  this: — 

A  bowing,  obsequious  Syndic,  a  speech  of  welcome, 
a  state  repast — fowl  drowned  in  rice  and  sheep's 
fat,  but  mere  boot-laces  when  you  got  at  the  bird — 
bad  olives,  worst  wine,  and  more  speeches.  Then 
came  a  fly-blown  town  hall,  a  malodorous  prison, 
from  which  Sir  Syndic  tried  all  his  arts  to  detain 
the  Most  Illustrious  General  Inspector  as  long  as 
possible.  There  were  the  usual  prisoners — petty 
larceners  mostly,  the  great  ones  being  engaged  in 
filling  Syndic's  chairs — a  stray  brigand  or  two,  lambs 
thrown  to  the  wolves  to  save  their  more  clever  com- 
rades. But  all  of  them — brigand,  brawler,  drunkard, 
gaoler,  syndic,  had  each  his  own  complaint  to  make, 
to  which  at  first  I  used  to  listen  patiently. 

They  were  innocent — all  innocent.  The  I^oly 
Virgin  knew  it,  the  blessed  Saints  too,  and  would 
one  day  make  it  plain.  And  then,  ah  then,  the 
false  witnesses  against  the  guiltless  would  have  con- 
viction brought  home  to  them — with  a  knife  pre- 
sumably. All,  all  was  the  same — dull  repetition, 
hateful  to  one  who  loved  the  camp  and  the  fierce 
light  which  gleams  along  the  fighting  line,  when  each 
man  is  going  to  strike  till  he  dies  for  his  fatherland. 
But  I  forget;  you  happy  islanders  have  never 
been  trodden  down  for  centuries,  never  seen  the 
tyrant's  flag  flaunt  hatefully  from  your  strongest 
fortresses  and  set  up  on  festal  days  in  your  historic 
squares.  And  now,  after  the  deliverance,  I,  who  had 
fought  Whitecoat  and  Croat  without  being  shamed, 


88         THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

was  sent  with  the  escort  of  a  subaltern  to  inspect 
prisons.  I  heard  afterwards  that  someone  in  high 
authority  considered  me  a  young  cock  whose  comb 
would  not  be  the  worse  for  cutting.  Anyway,  it  was 
cursedly  dull  work. 

Nothing  new,  nothing  interesting,  not  so  much  as 
a  pretty  girl  crossed  my  path  within  an  arm's  length, 
as  I  worked  my  way  southward  along  the  seaboard 
of  Adria.  Syndics,  speeches,  garbage  on  greasy 
plates,  innocents  in  prison — so  the  dreary  procession 
passed  by,  till  one  day  I  came  to  Atrani.  No,  that 
is  not  the  city's  ancient  and  distinguished  name,  but 
it  will  serve. 

Then  in  the  first  ward  of  the  prison  of  Atrani  I 
saw  a  face  and  I  heard  a  voice  which,  though  a  hun- 
dred years  old,  I  shall  not  forget. 

The  warder  opened  a  door  as  he  opened  all  the 
others,  and  with  a  sharp  word  called  to  attention  a 
woman  who  stood  up  straight,  looking  deep  into  my 
eyes.  The  light  fell  upon  her  face  through  the  high- 
barred  window.  Her  hands  were  clasped  in  front 
of  her.  Her  tall,  lithe  figure  showed  rounded  and 
graceful,  even  through  the  sack-like  prison  habit. 
Darkly  passionate,  stormily  moist,  blue-black  like  a 
thunder-cloud  striding  the  Gulf  of  Taranto  up  from 
the  Mediterranean,  so  seemed  to  me  the  eyes  of  the 
'woman  who  stood  before  me. 

.  "Maria  Perrone,  wife  of  Leo  Perrone,  brigand — 
for  murder  in  the  second  degree,  life  sentence!"  an- 
nounced the  warder,  saluting  with  a  face  like  a  mask. 


MURDERESS  AND  SAINT  S9 

"Whom  did  she  murder?"  I  demanded  of  him 
quickly. 

"One  Giovanni  Lupo,  a  soldier  of  the  country 
militia  of  her  own  province." 

I  looked  keenly  at  the  woman,  whose  dark  eyes 
had  never  swerved  a  moment  from  mine  since  the 
opening  of  the  cell  door  revealed  her  to  me. 

"Are  you  innocent  of  the  crime?"  I  asked  her, 
expecting  the  usual  denial. 

"I  killed  the  man!"  she  replied  impassively,  stand- 
ing the  while  like  an  angel  carven  in  the  niche  of  a 
duomo. 

I  turned  to  the  goaler. 

"Were  there  any  extenuating  circumstances?"  I 
asked  of  him,  "the  woman  does  not  look  like  a 
murderess." 

"It  is  said  that  the  soldier  insulted  her,  that  her 
husband  entered  and  attempted  to  interfere,  where- 
upon the  soldier,  being  armed,  had  the  best  of  it,  and 
when  he  had  overcome  the  man,  the  wife,  this  Maria 
Perrone,  stabbed  him  to  the  heart." 

"That  is  partly  a  lie,"  said  the  woman  calmly, 
without  any  manifestation  of  heat,  "no  man  who 
lives  could  overcome  Leo  Perrone,  my  husband!" 

The  warder  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Thus  she  answers  ever,"  he  said,  "but,  indeed,  as 
I  have  heard,  there  was  some  word  that  it  was  Leo 
Perrone  himself  who " 

As  I  watched  I  saw  the  veil  of  indifference  drop 
instantaneously  from  the  face  of  the  woman.  Her 
eyes  blazed  yellow  fire.    She  clutched  the  palms  of 


90  THE  LIGHl   OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

her  hands,  driving  her  long  finger-nails  into  them. 
Every  moment  she  seemed  to  be  about  to  spring 
upon  the  warder. 

"Gently,  gently,  Marie  Perrone,"  I  said,  putting 
forward  my  hand,  while  my  armed  escort  came  closer 
behind  us  to  seize  her  instantly,  if  it  should  be  nec- 
essary. "I  will  hear  all,  and  see  that  neither  you  nor 
your  husband  suffer  any  wrong." 

The  woman  calmed  herself  with  an  obvious  effort, 
and  dropped  back  into  her  previous  stony  impas- 
sivity. 

"No  man  can  accuse  my  husband  of  shedding 
blood,"  she  repeated.  "Have  I,  Maria  Perrone,  not 
confessed?  Have  I  not  been  tried?  Have  I  not  been 
condemned?  Am  I  not  enduring  my  punishment — 
aye,  and  shall  endure  it  till  the  day  I  die?" 

She  ended  with  a  wave  of  her  hand,  like  one  that 
cheers  a  well-beloved  flag  when  the  victorious  troops 
are  marching  in.  The  woman  interested  me  vastly. 
She  also  spoke  like  one  who  had  fought  and  tri- 
umphed. 

The  warder  went  on 

"Her  husband  goes  free.  She  speaks  truth.  He 
is  indeed  suspected  of  being  a  free  companion,  but 
that  is  small  crime  among  these  barbarous  hills,  till 
a  man  is  caught.  I  saw  him  in  the  market-place 
to-day — with  a  contadina,  a  country  maiden " 

"What?  Say  that  again!"  shrieked  the  woman, 
instantly  springing  forward.  Her  eyes  grew  deadly 
and  defiant  all  at  once. 


MURDERESS  AND  SAINT  91 

The  man  went  on  without  taking  any  notice  of  her 
outbreak. 

"With  a  maiden  of  ten  or  eleven  years — very 
beautiful,  in  truth,  a  Madonna  child." 

"Ah,  my  sweetest  Margherita!"  cried  the  woman, 
laughing  a  little,  but  with  the  tears  running  down 
her  cheeks,  "why  did  I  fear?  It  was  my  own  little 
lass,  but,  ah,  misericordia,  they  will  not  come  and 
see  me — the  prisoner,  the  murderess." 

She  dashed  her  bare  hands  up  to  her  cheeks,  and 
with  sallow,  prison-blanched  fingers  she  hastily 
brushed  away  the  running  tears. 

"But  it  is  better  so — a  felon  mother — ah  God,  one 
forsaken  of  the  saints!  She  will  think  me  that,  and 
she  will  not  even  remember  me  in  her  white  prayers." 

I  motioned  the  warder  to  shut  the  door.  I  could 
not  abide  the  woman's  grief.  The  inspection  dragged 
on  to  its  close.  Tier  after  tier,  corridor  after  cor- 
ridor, I  passed  in  review,  but,  do  what  I  could,  it 
was  not  in  my  power  to  shut  out  that  lovely  tear- 
stained  face,  into  which  had  not  yet  come  that  look 
of  quick  age  which  arrives  so  early  for  our  Southern 
women.  The  eyes,  darkly  tumultuous,  haunted  me, 
and  I  caught  myself  wishing  that  I  might  again  be- 
hold Maria  Perrone  the  murderess,  wife  of  Leo  the 
bandit  and  free  companion. 

However,  I  resisted  the  desire  to  return  to  her  cell, 
being  well  aware  that  the  officials  of  an  Italian  prison 
would  set  down  my  interest  in  the  woman  to  another 
motive  than  a  disinterested  desire  to  investigate  a 
prisoner's  complaints. 


92         THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

Presently,  weary  of  the  babble  of  syndics  and 
councillors,  I  excused  myself,  and  sauntered  out  into 
the  town.  Groups  of  broad-hatted  country-folk  were 
scattering  slowly  homeward.  Every  road  out  of  the 
little  city  was  filled  with  the  small,  wide-horned 
Apulian  oxen,  placidly  dragging  the  ox-carts  with 
straw  tanks  like  great  cups  mounted  upon  them, 
into  which  be-ribboned  girls  and  laughing  sunburnt 
lads  crowded  with  jest  and  infinite  laughter." 

As  I  proceeded,  I  saw  that  there  was  a  great  stir 
in  the  direction  of  the  cathedral.  Women  stood 
chattering  about  the  doors,  beggars  were  edging  and 
elbowing  for  the  places  nearest  to  the  entrance, 
vergers  were  striking  at  them  with  their  oflBcial 
staves  whenever  the  unlicensed  encroached  on  the 
sacred  pavemented  space  of  the  porch.  It  was  evi- 
dently a  great  ceremonial,  and  though  mostly  I  ani 
of  the  soldier's  religion  (which,  they  say,  is  that  of 
the  girl  he  is  courting),  I  had  not  lost  my  interest  in 
the  noble  and  impressive  pomps  with  which  Mother 
Church  keeps  her  hold  upon  the  children  of  the 
South — lovers  of  colour  and  tinsel  every  one. 

DoflSng  my  soldier's  hat,  I  strolled  in.  The  eve- 
ning sun  streamed  through  rich  and  ancient  lozenges. 
Coloured  marble  of  delicate  inlaid  work  glittered 
with  gold  and  silver.  Lapis  lazuli  and  veined 
porphyry  overlaid  the  tawny  travertine  of  the  pillars 
like  jewels  on  a  bride's  neck. 

A  great  procession  came  sweeping  up  the  aisle 
towards  the  altar — the  Cardinal  Carrara,  prince  of 
the  Church,  nephew  of  the  Pope,  bowing  his  keen, 


MURDERESS  AND  SAINT  93 

ascetic  churchman's  face  over  his  princely  scarlet. 
Foster-son  of  the  heretic  Waldense  valleys  though  I 
was,  Gallio  in  my  religion  as  the  red-shirts  of  Sicily 
had  made  me,  I  soon  found  myself  on  my  knees. 
Ah!  I  am  wiser  now.  I  think  more  seriously  of 
religion  and  its  utilities  than  I  did  in  the  sixties. 
Pteligion,  indeed,  comes  to  most  healthy  men  with 
the  stiffening  joints,  or  the  first  touch  of  lumbago  in 
the  back. 

I  rose,  leaned  against  a  pillar,  and  watched.  As 
the  sun  sank  it  shone  more  directly  in  through  the 
great  western  window.  The  broad  golden  stream  put 
out  the  candles,  so  that  it  was  only  in  the  chapels 
that  one  could  see  them  dot  the  gloom  with  their 
pale  silver  flakes.  The  organ  pealed  out.  The  young 
voices  in  the  choir  mounted  higher  and  higher — 
each,  as  it  were,  climbing  up  on  the  shoulders  of  the 
other,  till  they  seemed  to  break  away  through  the 
seven  heavens  up  to  the  throne  of  very  God.  Then 
deeper  voices,  somewhere  in  the  dusk  behind, 
chanted  the  "Miserere,"  and  a  wind,  scented  with 
incense,  passed  over  the  bowed  heads  of  the  wor- 
shippers. Yet  all  these  pomps  passed  me  by,  like  a 
tale  heard  when  one  is  half  asleep,  till  my  eyes  rested 
on  a  man  who  stood  by  the  next  pillar  to  that  against 
which  I  leaned. 

Accustomed  to  command  as  I  was,  I  knew,  as  soon 
as  my  eyes  rested  upon  him,  that  here  before  me 
stood  a  man  accustomed  from  his  youth  to  the  mas- 
tery of  his  fellows.  A  mere  peasant  he  seemed — tall, 
swarthy,  with  the  strongly-arched,  well-based,  rather 


94         THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

thick  Roman  nose  of  the  province,  dark  eyes  that 
jflashed  dangerously  from  beneath  bushy  eyebrows 
which  ahiiost  joined  in  the  midst,  strong  hands 
grasping  the  pillar  as  though,  like  Samson,  he  would 
bring  the  temple  of  the  Philistines  about  our  ears. 
The  stranger  was  dressed  in  dark  corduroy,  and  in 
the  hand  nearest  to  me  he  held  a  plumed  hat,  whose 
eagle  feathers  swept  the  floor. 

When  once  I  had  permitted  my  eyes  to  rest  upon 
the  man,  I  could  look  at  nothing  else,  so  greatly  did 
his  personality  impress  me. 

But,  as  I  continued  to  gaze,  I  saw  that  the  strong, 
rugged  face  outlined  against  the  pillar  was  con- 
vulsed. He  was  not  watching  the  priests,  as  they 
moved  to  and  fro  before  the  altar.  The  red-robed 
prince  of  Holy  Church  sat  throned  above  him,  and 
he  never  glanced  his  way.  But  the  man's  eyes  were 
on  the  great  hanging  cross  and  on  the  agonised 
figure  of  the  Crucified  upon  the  altar. 

His  lips  moved.  His  hands  twitched  convulsively. 
The  plumed  hat  dropped  unnoticed  on  the  floor. 
Clearer  and  even  clearer  rang  the  voices  of  the 
choristers. 

The  Duomo  grew  dark.  The  night  was  setting  in 
gloomily  with  cloud  and  wind  from  the  Gulf.  The 
splashed  purple  and  scarlet  from  the  western  win- 
dow had  been  quickly  dried  up.  The  tawny  traver- 
tine darkened  to  brown.  A  hundred  wax-lights  shone 
upon  the  reredos.  There  was  a  yet  deeper  gloom 
behind,  where  the  Prince  Cardinal  and  the  white 
and  golden  priests  were  shrined  together  in  a  mellow 


MURDERESS  AND  SAINT  95 

glow,  which  shone  out  softly  down  the  aisle  and  lay 
upon  the  heads  of  the  kneeling  worshippers  like  a 
benediction. 

All  the  while  never  did  I  for  a  moment  lift  my 
eyes  from  the  man  by  the  pillar.  I  could  see  the 
great  drops  of  sweat  swell  and  break  on  his  brow. 
His  hands  worked  convulsively.  What  could  the 
man  be?  Was  he  a  peasant  unaccustomed  to  the 
pomp  and  processioning  of  a  great  Duomo — a  con- 
science-stricken penitent,  perhaps,  waiting  for  his 
father  confessor,  though  of  a  truth  he  looked  little 
like  a  devotee. 

From  the  dusk  of  the  choir  a  single  voice  rose — 
what  was  that  it  was  singing?  I  who  know  so  little 
of  music  or  churchcraft  could  not  tell,  but  I  knew 
that  I  loved  the  sound  of  it,  for  the  sweet,  solitary 
singing  brought  the  tears  to  my  eyes. 

Someone  was  telling,  so  it  seemed,  of  pity  for  the 
sinner,  pardon  too,  perhaps,  for  the  contrite.  "Mis- 
erere," chorused  the  brethren  in  united,  sonorous 
bass.  "Miserere,  miserere,"  came  sighing  back  from, 
the  folk  in  the  aisle. 

"Confess  your  sins — make  confession — make  con- 
fession.   He  is  faithful  and  just  to  forgive  iniquity!" 

Words  like  these  the  strong,  clear  voice  sang  in 
the  dusk,  rising  up  through  the  low  chanted  litanies 
like  a  dove  soaring  on  strong  wings. 

Suddenly  I  saw  that  the  place  by  the  pillar  was 
vacant.  The  man  had  left  his  position.  He  strode 
towards  the  high  altar.  The  kneeling  crowd  lifted 
their  heads  and  looked  at  him.    Some  started  away 


96         THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

in  fear.  Could  it  be  that  the  man  would  kill  the 
prince  of  Holy  Church  as  he  sat  in  his  high  seat? 
Would  he  commit  sacrilege  in  the  very  place  of 
prayer? 

He  stood  for  a  moment  irresolute  at  the  foot  of 
the  altar  steps.  The  clear  voice  ceased.  The  chor- 
isters almost  forgot  to  continue  their  chorus. 

Suddenly  a  stronger  voice  than  any  was  heard  over 
all  the  Duomo.  It  was  that  of  the  man  who  had 
stood  by  the  pillar. 

"I  confess,"  he  cried,  "I  am  a  murderer.  Hear  me, 
holy  Fathers;  hear  me,  0  people  of  Atrani!  I  am 
Leo  Perrone,  and  a  murderer!  I,  and  not  my  wife, 
killed  the  soldier  Giovanni  Lupo!" 

And  he  threw  himself  down,  grovelling  with  his 
face  on  the  altar  steps. 

The  service  went  on  relentlessly  to  its  close.  The 
people  thronged  and  whispered.  The  priests  mut- 
tered one  to  the  other  as  they  moved  to  and  fro.  The 
Cardinal  summoned  one  to  his  side  and  conferred 
softly  with  him.  But  still  the  man  did  not  move. 
There  he  lay,  face  downward  on  the  marble  stairs, 
when  the  procession  swept  past  him  on  its  way  to  the 
sacristy.  Slowly  the  people  dispersed.  The  Syndic 
had  slipped  out  quietly  and  sent  for  the  officers.  The 
vergers  began  to  go  hither  and  thither  putting  out 
the  lights. 

Presently,  as  I  stood  and  watched,  the  man  raised 
his  face,  white  and  tense  with  agony  of  soul.  He 
heaved  himself  to  his  feet,  slackly,  as  if  his  muscles 
had  lost  their  power  and  moved  only  by  a  strong 


MURDERESS  AND  SAINT  97 

effort  of  will.  He  went  slowly  and  painfully  down 
the  aisle,  the  few  townsfolk  who  remained  shrinking 
from  him  as  from  a  madman.  In  the  matter  of 
Giovanni  Lupo  had  not  his  wife  been  condemned — 
he  cleared?  Why,  then,  should  the  man  thus  accuse 
himself  at  the  high  altar?  Why,  even  if  the  thing 
were  true,  could  he  not  quietly  confess  to  some  easy 
Father,  and  work  on  the  new  harbour  to  buy  Masses 
for  the  soul  of  the  dead  soldier,  who  doubtless  richly 
deserved  the  knife-thrust  he  got? 

Leo  Perrone  walked  stiffly  to  the  great  door  of  the 
Duomo,  leather-padded,  battered,  swinging  on  noise- 
less hinges.  He  groped  his  hands  a  little  before  him 
like  one  whose  eyes  are  dim,  whose  nerves  have  re- 
ceived a  shock.    He  opened  the  door  uncertainly. 

"In  the  King's  name!"  cried  a  voice,  as  he  went 
out  into  the  darkness. 

Half  a  dozen  bare  blades  were  at  his  breast  before 
he  could  move.  The  man  hfted  his  hands  and  held 
them  towards  the  gendarmes  with  a  gesture  which 
said  clearly,  "I  will  go  with  you  whither  you  will." 
The  manacles  clicked. 

"March!"  cried  a  voice  from  the  street. 

"Halt!"  said  another — my  own — out  of  the  dusk 
of  the  porch. 

With  the  instinct  of  obedience  the  men  halted. 
Their  officer  strode  threateningly  towards  me  with 
anger  in  his  eye.  So  soon,  however,  as  he  saw  my 
uniform  of  general,  his  sword  rose  and  dropped  again 
in  salute. 

"Pardon,  Excellency!     I  failed  to  recognise  you 


98         THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

in  the  darkness.  What  shall  I  do  with  this  man  who 
has  accused  himself  of  murder?" 

"Send  him  to  my  lodging,  and — let  me  see,  bring 
his  wife,  Maria  Perrone,  directly  from  the  prison.  I 
would  confront  them,  the  one  with  the  other." 

The  officer  again  saluted  with  infinite  respect. 
Was  he  not  an  under  officer  of  police — and  I — In- 
spector of  Prisons  and  a  general — scarce  less  than  a 
king  to  him? 

I  strolled  to  my  rooms  in  a  strangely  expectant 
mood  of  mind.  I  was  about  to  witness  a  curious 
sight — two  self-accusers  claiming  one  murder.  One 
lied — it  was  my  business  to  discover  which. 

The  two  dragoons  of  my  escort  who  were  on  duty 
at  my  door  saluted  as  I  entered.  At  the  top  of  the 
stairs  I  found  Stephano,  my  orderly,  in  a  state  of 
wild  consternation.  There  was  talk  of  brigands  in 
the  town,  he  said,  and  I  had  not  been  seen  since  four 
o'clock.  But  I  comforted  him  with  a  cheerful  word, 
and  told  him  that  before  supper  there  were  certain 
prisoners  to  be  examined.  He  must,  therefore,  make 
such  preparations  as  might  seem  most  impressive 
and  official.  So  I  went  to  my  bedroom  and  threw 
myself  down  on  the  couch  to  think  the  matter  over. 

After  a  while  someone  came  and  tapped  gently 
at  my  door. 

"Who  is  there?"  I  cried. 

"It  is  I,  Stephano,"  said  the  orderly. 

"Ah,  Stephano,  enter!" 

Then  the  faithful  one  told  me  quickly  that  all  was 
ready — the  man  in  waiting,  the  Syndic  himself  pres- 


MURDERESS  AND  SAINT  99 

ent,  and  the  feet  of  the  guard  who  brought  the 
woman  already  on  the  stair. 

Stephano  quickly  buckled  on  my  sword,  and  threw 
the  silken  general's  sash  over  my  shoulder.  Then 
he  drew  his  own  sword,  opened  the  door,  and  an- 
nounced me  formally 

"His  Most  Illustrious  Excellency  the  General!" 
For  Stephano  magnified  his  own  office,  and  inci- 
dentally, mine  also. 


CHAPTER  XI:     THE  WOMAN  AND  HER 

MAN 

It  was  a  curious  scene  (the  General  continued) 
that  I  witnessed  as  I  entered  the  great  room  of  the 
old  palace,  which,  in  the  troubles  of  the  great 
Napoleon,  had,  as  often  happens,  become  the  chief 
inn  of  the  sadly-reduced  city  of  Atrani. 

My  entire  escort,  all  save  the  sentries  of  the  outer 
door,  were  disposed  in  full  uniform  on  either  side 
of  the  gloomy  apartment.  A  long  table  stood  in 
the  midst,  with  candles  and  papers  on  it — the  latter 
for  show  merely,  being  mostly  regimental  dockets  of 
Stephano's  and  a  few  draft  reports  of  my  own.  The 
Syndic  had  previously  seated  himself  at  the  side  of 
the  table,  but  at  the  brusque  announcement  of 
Stephano  he  had  risen  involuntarily  and  now  stood 
with  bowed  head  while  I  walked  to  the  red  and  gold 
chair  of  state  reserved  for  me  at  the  upper  end  of 
the  room. 

Then,  as  they  were  bringing  forward  the  prisoner, 
Stephano  came  again  to  my  side,  and  unbuckling 
the  sword  of  honour  which  the  King  himself  had 
given  me,  he  laid  it  with  infinite  dignity  on  the  table 
in  front  of  me. 

"We  are  in  an  ill  town,  and  among  an  untrust- 
worthy folk,  at  once  turbulent  and  bandit-ridden," 

100 


THE  WOMAN  AND  HER  MAN  101 

he  whispered,  as  I  moved  my  hand  impatiently  for 
him  to  fall  back,  "It  is  well  to  let  the  cattle  know 
it  when  a  great  man  deigns  to  come  among  them." 

For  Stephano  was  also  of  the  North,  and  despised 
the  folk  of  the  south-eastern  shore. 

I  looked  up  and  saw  Leo  Perrone  standing  at  the 
end  of  the  table  furthest  from  me.  His  hands  were 
bound  behind  him.  He  looked  on  the  floor  but  his 
face  was  no  longer  as  I  had  seen  it,  shaken  with  emo- 
tion.   It  was  grey  and  stern,  but  very  quiet  withal. 

There  came  the  tramp  of  soldiers  on  the  stone 
stairs,  the  jangle  of  accoutrements,  and  a  file  of 
carabinieri  entered  with  a  woman.  It  was  Maria 
Perrone,  the  dark  woman  with  the  handsome  eyes 
whom  I  had  seen  in  the  mornmg.  They  brought  her 
to  the  table  end  and  set  her  beside  her  husband. 

She  glanced  up,  and  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  man. 

"Leo!"  she  cried  fiercely,  "Leo!  A  prisoner!  Oh, 
my  Leo,  what  have  they  done  to  you  now?" 

And  she  raised  her  arms  and  clasped  him  about* 
the  neck.  The  loose  coarse  prison  sleeves  fell  back 
from  the  well-rounded  arms,  and  I  saw  her  fingers 
clasp  and  knit  convulsively  behind  the  man's  head. 
He  turned  his  eyes  towards  her,  and  pain  and  love 
struggled  together  in  them.  The  muscles  of  his  arms 
twitched  and  drew  like  wire  bell-pulls  as  he  struggled 
to  get  his  arms  free.    But  the  steel  wristbands  held. 

"Maria!  Mother  Maria!  Beloved  one!"  he  said 
huskily,  looking  down  at  her  a  moment  with  knitted 
brows. 

And  then,  as  she  clung  yet  closer  to  him,  he  pushed 


102       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

her  gently  away  with  a  proud  Uttle  movement,  like 
one  who  would  say,  "Shame,  shame  beloved,  this  is 
no  time  and  no  company  for  the  showing  of  love!'' 

But  in  spite  of  these  Maria  Perrone  wistfully  kept 
her  eyes  on  him.  He  did  not  look  again  at  his  wife, 
but,  as  if  he  dared  us  to  think  ill  of  it,  he  fronted 
us  all  defiantly,  and  yet  with  a  certain  grimly  watch- 
ful respectfuhiess  which  won  upon  me  strangely. 

Slowly  tlie  woman's  hands  unclasped  themselves 
as  she  noticed  the  uneasy  shrug  of  her  husband's 
shoulders  under  her  touch.  The  white  arms  grew 
suddenly  lax,  and  fell  heavily  to  her  side.  She  turned 
herself  about,  looking  at  us  one  by  one  inquiringly. 

I  paused  awhile  before  I  spoke,  turning  over  in 
my  mind  how  I  should  best  arrive  at  the  truth. 

"You  are  guilty  of  this  murder  for  which  you  were 
condemned?"  I  said  to  the  woman. 

"I  am  truly  guilty  of  the  man's  death !  I,  and  I 
alone,  did  it!"  slie  answered  firmly.  "I  know  not  of 
what  my  husband  is  accused  that  he  should  stand 
here  bound,  but,  as  God  is  my  judge,  of  all  part  in 
the  killing  of  the  soldier  Giovanni  Lupo,  he  is  inno- 
cent!" 

I  nodded,  and  turned  to  her  husband.  The 
woman's  eyes  were  steady  as  truth  itself. 

"You  hear  what  your  wife  testifies?"  I  said  in  turn 
to  the  man.  "Do  you  still  adhere  to  the  open  con- 
fession you  made  in  the  Duomo  to-night?" 

"Confession  in  the  Duomo!"  almost  shrieked  the 
woman,  turning  to  her  husband.  "You  made  no  con- 
fession, tell  them  you  made  no  confession ! " 


THE  WOMAN  AND  HER  MAN  103 

The  man  drew  a  long  breath,  swallowed  hard,  so 
that  I  saw  the  apple  in  his  throat  first  rise  and  fall, 
and  then  swell  as  if  it  would  choke  him.  He  began 
to  speak  in  a  broken  voice. 

"Excellency,"  he  said,  "it  is  true — all  that  I  said 
when  the  music  made  me  cry  out  in  agony  up  in  the 
cathedral  yonder.  Ajid  now  I  desire  the  punishment 
of  man,  that  I  may  escape  the  vengeance  of  God  for 
the  shedding  of  blood.  I  wish  to  hide  the  truth  no 
longer.  I  will  not  lie  to  God  any  more,  nor  let  this 
innocent  one  undergo  the  doom  which  ought  justly 
to  be  mine." 

"You  are  mad — mad — mad,  Leo  Perrone!  Hold 
your  peace.  He  is  beside  himself,  great  General.  Do 
not  listen,"  cried  the  woman,  coming  swiftly  around 
the  table  before  any  could  prevent  her,  and  kneeling 
at  my  chair.  Stephano,  who  did  not  approve  of 
such  familiarities,  would  have  thrust  her  back,  but  I 
motioned  him  to  his  place  with  my  hand,  without 
speaking.  The  woman  set  her  hand  quickly  to  her 
head,  as  if  her  wits  were  in  danger  of  leaving  her 
and  she  desired  to  recall  them.  With  the  hurried 
movement  all  her  fine  dark  hair  fell  below  her  waist, 
in  crisps  and  waves  of  shining  blue-black  silk.  The 
soldiers  about  the  room  gasped  with  astonishment, 
divided  between  duty  and  admiration. 

"Do  not  believe  him,"  she  pleaded,  clasping  her 
hands,  "he  but  desires  to  save  me  even  at  the  cost 
of  his  own  life.  For,  you  see,  he  loves  me — yes,  he 
loves  me.  I  know  him  well.  He  would  die  to  save 
me,  his  wife.    My  imprisonment  has  driven  him  mad. 


104.       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

But  listen,  Most  Illustrious,  hearken  to  a  woman.  It 
was  my  hand,  my  desire,  my  knife  that  slew  Gio- 
vanni Lupo  for  the  insult  he  offered  to  the  wife  of 
Leo  Perrone.  I — I  alone  did  the  deed.  Do  not  lis- 
ten, Excellency.  Send  me  back  to  prison — and  let 
him  go  free!" 

She  wailed  rather  than  spoke  the  last  words,  and 
creeping  nearer  to  my  chair,  she  clutched  my  hand 
in  both  of  hers,  and  strove  to  look  into  my  eyes  to 
read  my  decision  there. 

Stephano  came  nearer.  This  was  too  much.  He 
took  her  by  the  wrists  roughly  and  flung  her  hands 
from  him  as  though  their  touch  had  been  defilement. 

"Get  back  to  your  place,  woman!"  he  commanded 
sternly. 

The  woman  rose  without  a  murmur,  and  walked 
back  to  the  side  of  her  man  with  downcast  eyes. 

"Now,  Leo  Perrone,  what  do  you  say  to  this?" 
I  asked  of  the  man,  whose  strong  piercing  eyes  dwelt 
steadily  upon  my  face. 

"Excellency,"  he  said,  "Maria,  my  wife,  loves  me, 
as  you  have  seen.  She  has  done  this  for  love — for- 
sworn herself,  confessed  the  thing  which  she  never 
did,  taken  upon  her  the  punishment  which  was  mme 
— all  because  she  knew  that  for  such  a  crime  the 
judge  would  hang  a  man,  but  only  imprison  a 
woman.  Maria  Perrone,  my  wife,  did  this  thing  for 
my  sake — and  I,  crawling  rat  of  hell  that  I  was,  per- 
mitted it.  But  all  the  while  God  had  me  in  his 
grips,  and  to-night  in  the  Duomo  He  sent  me  a  mes- 
sage— that  only  in  making  an  open  confession  lay 


THE  WOMAN  AND  HER  MAN  105 

any  hope  for  my  sinful  soul.  So  now  I  accuse  myself. 
I  will  tell  the  whole  truth  here  and  now.  It  was  a 
night  when  I  had  been  far  away.  I  returned  to  my 
house  eager  to  meet  my  wife,  to  clasp  the  little 
Margherita,  the  sweetest  and  the  innocentest  lass  in 
all  the  quarter  of  the  Hedgehog.  As  I  came  up  the 
stair  I  heard  the  pother  of  angry  voices,  then  a 
scream  of  pain  and  fear  from  my  wife,  Maria.  At 
two  bounds  I  was  at  the  door,  another  and  I  was 
within.  There  stood  Giovanni  Lupo  in  the  act  of 
offering  insult  to  my  wife.  Then  forthwith  the  mad- 
ness came  upon  me,  as  it  would  have  come  to  you. 
Excellency,  seeing  your  wife  thus,  and  your  little 
daughter  on  the  floor  weeping.  My  wife's  marketing 
knife  lay  at  hand,  on  the  board  where  she  had  been 
preparing  the  supper  stuff.  I  lifted  it,  and — well, 
that  Wolf  will  never  insult  wife  or  children  any  more 
for  ever.  I  sent  him  hurtling  back  to  his  own  black 
Inferno  i" 

Leo  Perrone  ceased,  and  erected  himself  proudly, 
so  that  his  tangled  locks  stood  out  about  his  head 
like  a  stone-pine  growing  on  a  mountain  top  above 
the  sea. 

Again  the  woman  would  have  flung  herself  at  my 
feet.  But  Stephano  had  suffered  enough.  He  took 
her  flrmly  by  the  arm  and  led  her  into  the  middle  of 
the  room,  at  a  distance  both  from  the  table  whera 
stood  her  husband  and  from  my  chair.  He  gave  her 
arm  a  little  shake  of  finality  as  if  to  say,  "Tell  lie  oi; 
tell  truth,  but  tell  it  where  you  stand,  and  not  else- 
where." 


106       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

Then  Maria  Perrone  fell  on  her  knees  on  the  pol- 
ished marble  of  the  floor. 

"Believe  him  not,"  she  cried,  yet  more  earnestly, 
"It  is  but  his  mind  which  has  given  way.  He  has 
often  had  such  seizures.  I  have  seen  them  come 
upon  him  a  hundred  times.  Listen,  great  General. 
I  swear  it  by  my  soul's  salvation,  upon  the  blessed 
Cross,  upon  these  relics  of  the  Saints.  I — I  alone 
struck  the  blow,  and  I  killed  Giovanni  Lupo."  As 
she  spoke  she  lifted  up  a  crucifix,  in  which  was  a 
fragment  of  iron  nail,  and  made  the  vow  which,  to  an 
Apulian,  seals  eternal  destruction  if  the  oath  be 
false  or  broken. 

I  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  Leo  Perrone  stood 
with  his  strong  stern  look  fixed  directly  upon  me. 
The  woman  clasped  her  hands  before  her,  and  looked 
at  me  dry-eyed.  For  a  moment  I  was  at  my  wit's 
end. 

Stephano  nudged  me  gently. 

"The  child,  the  little  Margherita,"  he  whispered 
from  behind.  "She  followed  her  father  when  he  was 
taken.  She  is  below  at  this  moment.  Shall  I  bring 
her  up?" 

I  nodded  to  him.  Presently,  between  a  file  of 
dragoons  standing  at  attention,  there  came,  walking 
with  quick,  uncertain  steps,  the  little  maid  Marghe- 
rita — pale  of  face,  dark  locks  all  a-tangle  about  her 
brow.  She  looked  very  lovely.  She  dashed  her  hair 
away  with  her  hand  as  Stephano  placed  her  between 
her  father,  at  the  table's  end,  and  her  mother,  still 
kneeling  on  the  floor. 


THE  WOMAN  AND  HER  MAN  107 

"Margherita,"  I  said  gently,  ''tell  all  you  know  of 
the  killing  of  the  wicked  man  Giovanni  Lupo.  You 
were  there,  your  father  tells  me." 

The  little  maid  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of 
us.  I  saw  her  mother  make  the  sign  of  silence,  and 
from  that  moment  I  was  sure. 

"Look  at  your  father,"  I  said  more  sternly,  "and 
do  what  he  bids  you." 

"Tell  the  truth,  Margherita  Perrone!"  said  the 
calm  voice  of  the  self-accuser  at  the  table-end. 

"Must  I?"  she  said,  looking  all  about,  "must  I, 
indeed  tell  all?" 

"No — no — Margherita!  You  saw  it  not — it  was 
I!  It  was  I  only!"  cried  Maria.  "Tell  them  it  was 
your  mother,  child,  who  killed  the  man,  or  as  I  live 
I  will  curse  you  with  the  curse  of  a  mother — the 
curse  that  God  will  hear !  The  curse  that  can  never 
be  taken  off!" 

"Speak  the  truth!  All  the  truth!"  said  Leo  Per- 
rone again,  sternly  and  quietly. 

"It  was  Lupo,  the  soldier,"  at  last  the  little  girl 
spoke  out  bravely,  looking  very  modestly  at  me,  "and 
he  had  come  often  to  our  house.  My  mother  hated 
him.  My  father  warned  him  not  to  come.  But  one 
night,  when  father  was  among  the  mountains  on  his 
business,  this  Lupo  the  Wolf  came,  and  first  he  spoke 
ill  words,  and  then  at  last  he  took  hold  of  my  mother 
to  hurt  her.  Whereupon  my  mother  cried  out,  'Leo, 
Leo,  my  man,  my  man!    Help  me!'  " 

"Yes,  yes.  And  I  struck  at  him  with  my  own 
knife,  Margherita,  did  I  not?    Speak,  child  of  my 


108       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

heart!"  cried  Maria,  bending  all  her  will  into  her  to 
make  the  child  speak  the  thing  she  desired  her  to 
say.  But,  with  her  eyes  on  my  face,  the  child  went 
on. 

"Then,  just  when  my  mother  cried  'Help!'  my 
father  opened  the  door,  and  his  face  was  very  white 
and  angry,  so  that  it  was  not  good  to  look  upon  it. 
And  he  never  took  his  eyes  from  the  eyes  of  Lupo 
the  Wolf,  who  began  to  make  excuses  and  to  laugh 
and  jest,  saying  that  he  did  but  play.  But  my  father, 
being  greatly  angry,  came  forward  very  slowly,  and 
lifting  the  knife  from  my  mother's  cutting-board,  he 
took  Lupo  by  the  throat,  and  telling  him  first  that 
he  was  about  to  kill  him  for  the  insult  he  had  done 
to  his  wife,  drove  the  point  to  his  heart.  And  so 
Lupo  fell  down  and  died ! " 

The  woman's  shriek  rang  through  the  room  at  the 
last  words.  She  had  risen  to  her  feet  while  the  tale 
was  being  told,  and  now  only  the  strong  arm  of 
Stephano  kept  her  from  leaping  upon  Margherita. 

"You  have  lied — lied  in  your  throat,  devil's  spawn ! 
It  was  not  Leo  who  killed  him,  but  I!  Have  I  not 
sworn  it  on  the  reliquaries  of  the  Saints?  Have  I 
not  pledged  my  soul's  salvation  for  the  truth  of  it? 
He  accuses  himself,  he  says,  for  his  soul's  sake.  Body 
and  soul  both  have  I  not  given  for  him?" 

She  paused  and  gazed  around.  And,  as  she  looked, 
she  read  unbelief  in  every  face.  Then  all  suddenly 
she  flung  up  her  arms. 

"Oh,  there  is  none  of  you  that  will  believe  me. 
And  I  have  told  you  so  often.     I  have  done  all  I 


THE  WOMAN  AND  HER  MAN  109 

could,  and  they  will  hang  him — hang  my  Leo!  O 
God,  God!  kill  me,  thrust  me  down  to  lowest  hell, 
but  let  them  not  take  away  my  Leo,  my  man  Leo!" 

And  she  fell  all  her  length  upon  the  floor.  The 
strength  of  her  strong  soul  had  given  way  at  last. 
As  for  the  man,  he  never  so  much  as  looked  at  her. 

Then,  while  Stephano  and  one  of  the  soldiers  lifted 
her  up,  I  bethought  me  deeply. 

"Let  all  three  be  warded  to-night  in  one  room  of 
the  prison — the  best  apartment,  that,  I  think.  Master 
Gaoler,  in  which  you  keep  the  contrabands  when 
any  lodge  with  you." 

But  as  they  were  in  the  act  of  carrying  the  woman 
out,  she  turned  her  head  towards  me,  and,  like  one 
that  speaks  out  of  a  deep  sleep,  she  said,  "You  will 
not  hang  my  Leo?" 

"Go,  rest  in  peace,"  said  I.  "I  promise  to  speak 
to  the  King  himself  for  you  and  your  Leo.  More  I 
cannot." 

That  night  I  slept  vilely,  and  so  some  time  after 
midnight  I  rose  and  cast  my  cloak  about  me.  Then 
I  opened  the  door.  Across  it,  so  close  that  well 
might  I  have  stepped  upon  him,  slept  Stephano  on  a 
bundle  of  mats. 

"Excellency!"  he  cried,  leaping  up  and  rubbing  his 
eyes,  "whither  are  you  going  at  this  time  of  night?" 

"I  cannot  sleep,"  I  said,  "I  go  to  drink  the  night 
air." 

"To  drink  the  poison  of  these  accursed  eastern 
swamps,  more  like,"  he  growled.  "Abide,  and  sleep 
will  come  in  time." 


110       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

But  I  stepped  out  and  away  across  to  the  prison. 
Presently  I  was  thundering  at  the  door,  and  after 
an  interval  the  gaoler  appeared,  swearing  most 
volubly,  and  calling  me  all  the  sons  of  pigs  and 
asses  that  ever  blighted  the  wholesome  earth  for 
disturbing  him  out  of  his  first  sound  sleep. 

But  when  he  saw  me  stand  on  the  doorstep,  his 
curses  sank  instantaneously  to  abjectest  apologies. 
He  opened  the  great  creaking  portal  wide  as  for  an 
army,  and,  as  I  steped  within,  lo!  there  was  Stephano 
behind  me,  armed  to  the  teeth. 

"I  did  not  bid  you  come,"  said  I,  crossly  enough. 
"Neither  did  you  bid  me  stay,  my  General!"  an- 
swered the  rascal,  grinning. 

Without  answering  I  told  the  gaoler  to  lead  me 
to  the  large  room  I  had  ordered  the  Perrone  family 
to  be  kept  safe  in  for  the  night. 

As  we  entered  the  woman  held  up  her  finger.  She 
did  not  move,  but  her  dark  eyes  looked  unutterable 
petitions.  Her  husband  rested  on  the  single  straw 
mattress,  his  head  reclined  on  her  shoulder,  his 
tangled  hair  falling  over  his  brow.  The  little 
Margherita  lay,  breathing  softly,  on  a  fold  of  her 
mother's  dress.  The  man's  feet  were  wrapped  in  his 
wife's  petticoat,  which  she  had  taken  off  on  purpose. 
Very  gently  she  stroked  the  damp  hair  back  from  his 
brow,  crooning  over  him  the  while  like  a  mother  with 
a  fretful  child  that  may  wake  at  any  moment. 

Again,  and  more  pitifully,  she  made  the  sign  for 
silence,  looking  beseechingly  up  at  us  with  wet  wide 
eyes. 


THE  WOMAN  AND  HER  MAN  111 

And  I  could  see  that  the  breast  of  her  prison  dress 
was  drenched  with  tears. 

So  we  went  out  and  shut  the  door  upon  the  woman 
and  her  man. 

The  end?  Why,  that  is  the  end.  But  what  came 
of  Leo  and  Maria,  you  say?  Why,  what  should 
become  of  them?  You  remember  the  Tremiti 
Islands,  which  you  see  from  the  Venice  liner  before 
you  raise  Monte  Gargano  going  south — there  is  a 
lighthouse  there.  Well,  as  I  passed  the  last  time  I 
saw  Leo  Perrone  out  in  his  boat  ready  to  catch  the 
papers  and  despatches  which  were  thrown  him  from 
the  great  steamer.  The  King  made  him  keeper  of 
that  lighthouse  when  I  told  him  the  story,  and  he 
has  been  there  ever  since.  And  with  my  glass  I  could 
see  Maria,  his  wife,  standing  up  aloft,  sometimes 
polishing  the  brasses,  and  anon  setting  her  hand  to 
her  brow  to  look  over  the  sea  for  her  man,  as  his  oars 
flashed  and  his  boat's  prow  pointed  homewards. 

The  little  Margherita — oh,  as  for  her,  I  have  heard 
that  she  had  married  the  lighthouse  keeper  on  the 
cape  which  looks  out  towards  the  Tremiti,  and  that 
she  spends  ahnost  as  much  time  on  the  islands  as 
with  her  husband  on  the  shore. 

But  I  am  sure  her  mother  would  not  have  dond 
that,  but  then  not  all  women  love  their  men  as 
Maria  Perrone,  the  murderess,  loved  hers.         ^  (----i 


CHAPTER  XII:     THE  BIER  AND  THE 
WOMAN  WEEPING 

Far  behind  we  left  the  Trasteveran,  its  smoulder- 
ing ruins,  its  rifted  sides,  its  blasted  triangle  of  terri- 
tory. Yes,  behind  us!  True,  the  reek  of  the  nether 
pit,  sulphurous,  still  blew  chokingly  upon  us.  But 
soon  the  fresh  airs  from  the  sea  began  to  cool  our 
temples. 

I  do  not  hold  with  the  ancients.  A  change  of 
horizon  does  change  the  mind  of  man — mine,  at  any 
rate.  And  to  get  away  from  that  accursed  place, 
quickened  my  every  pulse,  and  made  tense  every 
sinew.    Already  I  felt  years  younger. 

Zini's  men  scouted  ahead.  Zini  himself  led  the 
White  Pope's  Apulian  brindled  jennet,  which  after 
the  manner  of  its  kind,  went  as  softly  as  a  mule. 
We  could  see  the  tall  draped  figure  in  front  of  us. 
For  the  farmer  had  insisted  on  lending  the  rider  a 
cloak,  dark  blue,  rough-spun,  and  caught  with  a  great 
military  clasp  at  the  neck. 

Behind,  following  the  tread  of  the  horse's  feet  with 
something  of  the  air  of  a  religious  procession,  came 
Mary  Orloff.  The  White  Pope  had  at  first  insisted 
that  the  jennet  should  carry  her,  while  he  walked  at 
the  bridle-rein.  But  the  fever  of  anxiety  into  which 
the  proposal  sent  his  mother  caused  him  to  desist. 

"Have  I  followed  you  so  far  on  foot,  to  fail  weakly 

112 


THE  BIER  lis 

now?"  she  said,  indignantly.  "Have  I  not  carried 
you  over  the  flints  of  Mount  Zion — aye,  through 
Hinnom,  where  the  pilgrims  in  sport  break  their 
empty  bottles — bare  of  foot  have  I  not  carried  you, 
my  son?    Let  me  follow  now  and  be  happy!" 

The  White  Pope  insisted  no  farther.  He  saw  deep 
into  things,  in  spite  of  his  simplicity,  and  he  knew 
there  was  no  reason  why  he  should  refuse  to  make 
this  woman  happy.  So  he  rode  on  and  she  followed. 
Behind  I  listened  to  the  story  of  Maria  Perrone  and 
her  husband,  while  behind  us,  his  sword  bare  and  a 
hand  on  his  revolver,  Stephano  the  orderly  guarded 
the  rear,  taking  care,  however,  to  keep  out  of  ear- 
shot. Turning  occasionally  I  saw  Stephano  sil- 
houtted  against  a  light  dreary  and  sombre,  the  puls- 
ing coppery  reflection  of  the  volcano  we  had  left 
behind  us. 

But  the  White  Pope,  when  we  began  to  see  him 
clearly,  stood  relieved  against  the  glory  of  the  morn- 
ing marching  up  the  sky  out  of  the  Eastern  Sea. 

Heath  and  romarin  began  to  crisp  beneath  our 
feet,  and  a  black  cliff  mounted  steadily  as  we  ad- 
vanced, while  something  mysterious  like  a  glimmer- 
ing wall  of  mother-of-pearl  spread  away  to  either 
side.  The  huge  black  dome  was  Monte  Gargano, 
and  the  glimmering  sheet,  opal  and  pearl,  was  Adria 
— to  be  more  exact,  the  Gulf  of  Manfredonia. 

We  passed  like  ghosts  through  the  narrow  streets 
of  sleeping  towns.  Dogs,  gaunt  and  slinking,  came 
and  sniffed  at  us.  But  not  one  barked.  No  soul  was 
awake.    Not  a  head  peered  from  any  casement  that 


114       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

I  could  see.  They  sleep  late  and  heavy  in  the  vil- 
lages behind  Gargano.  It  was  all  like  walking  in  a 
dream.  And  the  towns,  such  as  they  were  (for  we 
avoided  the  great  cities  with  railways  and  tele- 
graphs) loomed  above  us  uncertainly.  We  passed 
under  the  tall  straight  arches  of  their  churches,  from 
which  stone  devils  leered  down  on  our  heads,  black 
against  the  awaking  primrose  of  morn. 

At  last  we  came  out  upon  the  naked  plateau.  The 
steeps  of  Gargano  alone  arose  in  front.  Beyond  was 
the  pearl-flecked  iridescent  carpet  of  the  sea.  Zini 
and  his  men  were  to  bid  us  good-bye  here,  no  doubt 
with  some  wilhngness,  all  save  Zini  himself.  As  he 
stopped  to  kiss  the  hand  of  the  White  Pope,  reached 
down  to  him  by  the  rider,  we  heard  a  voice,  "Go 
back  to  your  own  city.  Dwell  among  your  own  kin. 
Do  justice.  Love  mercy.  Help  the  misfortunate  and 
the  evil.    Bless  them  that  curse  you " 

"Let  me  accompany  you,"  pleaded  Zini,  "let  me 
also  come.  I  am  an  ignorant  man.  I  have  never 
travelled  out  of  my  country.  But  I  could  learn.  At 
least  I  could  fetch  and  carry,  groom  your  Holiness's 
beast,  hew  wood  and  draw  water^  be  your  servant  in 
all  fidelity." 

"But — "  replied  the  White  Pope,  laying  his  hand 
on  the  ex-brigand's  head,  "abide,  and  preach  the 
evangel!" 

"But  how  can  I  teach?"  said  Zini,  the  tears  tric- 
kling, "I  know  not  myself.  I  would  first  come  and 
learn.  Let  me  follow  you.  Then  after,  I  will  go  to 
my  own  country  and  do  all  your  will." 


THE  BIER  115 

"Nay,"  said  the  White  Pope,  "you  are  chargeable 
with  these  poor  lads  of  yours.  Go  back  with  them. 
Find  them  wherewith  honestly  to  live.  Tell  them 
there  is  to  be  no  confession,  no  priest,  no  altar  in- 
cense, no  Mass,  no  table  of  sacrifice  any  more  for 
ever — nothing  but  the  communion  of  God  with  the 
soul  of  man.  Tell  them  that  God  is  to  be  found  in 
every  man's  heart.  And  there  is  no  other  God  in 
earth  or  heaven  who  can  be  of  any  use  to  us — neither 
to  me,  Christopher  the  Pope,  nor  yet  to  you  Zini, 
the  manslayer!" 

The  brigand  leaped  at  the  word. 

"Holiness,"  he  said,  "it  was  in  self-defence!" 

"I  do  not  judge  you,"  said  the  White  Pope,  "I 
judge  no  man.  Ah-eady  blood  has  been  shed  for  me. 
And  against  me  and  about  me  the  armies  of  men  are 
gathering  to  the  great  battle,  out  of  which,  in  time, 
shall  be  born  the  New  World." 

Then  I  saw  the  eyes  of  Zini  shine  secretly,  but 
instead  of  replying  as  I  expected,  he  bowed  his  head, 
and  took  meekly  enough  the  blessing  of  the  White 
Pope. 

"On  you  and  on  your  house  be  Peace!" 

Further  than  this  Zini  said  not  a  word,  but  turn- 
ing with  a  wave  of  his  hand  he  summoned  his  men, 
and  disappeared  across  the  glimmering  plain  into 
one  of  the  dry  torrent  beds  or  "nullahs"  which  seam 
all  that  part  of  Italy. 

The  sun  rose  with  a  sudden  heave  of  red  cloud, 
as  if  like  a  spouting  whale  he  had  driven  some  part 
of  the  sea  before  him.    As  we  looked  the  dark  mass 


116       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

of  Gargaiio  changed  to  white  path,  grey-green  pas- 
ture and  the  glittering  grey  of  limestone  rock.  The 
great  cap©  svram  before  us  in  a  sort  of  creamy  haze, 
doubtless  the  night  dew  which  the  sun  was  drawing 
up  after  him. 

We  held  straight  upwards  to  the  height  of  the 
promontory.  For  not  even  the  General  knew  where 
the  shore-light  was  situated,  at  which  we  should  find 
little  Margherita  and  her  husband.  Since  the  day  of 
Atrani,  when  her  mother  had  cursed  the  little  maid 
because  she  told  the  truth.  General  Cipriano  had 
never  seen  the  daughter  of  Maria  Perrone.  She  had, 
they  said,  married  the  lighthouse  keeper  upon  the 
point  of  Gargano,  and  that  was  the  sum  of  his  knowl- 
edge of  her. 

Now  the  lighthouse  of  Monte  Gargano  stands,  not^ 
on  the  summit  of  the  cape,  where  it  would  be  hidden 
often  by  clouds,  but  on  a  cliff  which  overhangs  Viesti, 
a  little  coastwise  harbour,  land-locked,  in  which  a 
few  poor  fisliing  craft  cuddle  together  from  the  fierce 
visitations  of  Euroclydon. 

Usually  the  lighthouse  stands  alone,  a  white 
column  whipped  by  the  sea-winds,  lifted  three  hun- 
dred feet  above  the  mutter  of  the  white  surges  below. 
A  swallow-winged  tern  curiously  awheel,  or  a  butter- 
fly taking  rest  before  starting  on  its  last  lorn  sea- 
voyage — such  were  for  the  most  part  the  only 
visitants  of  Raphael  Rodi  and  his  wife,  Margherita, 
in  the  lighthouse  upon  the  Testa  del  Gargano. 

But  when  we  came  within  sight  of  the  taper  shaft 
and  the  low  white-washed  service  buildings  which 


THE  BIER  117 

surrounded  it,  there  were  present  all  the  elements  of 
a  crowd — that  is,  for  such  a  lonesome  place. 

Instantly  the  General  ran  forward  and  stopped  the 
beast  on  which  the  White  Pope  was  riding. 

"Wait  a  little  till  we  make  inquiries,"  he  mur- 
mured, "I  see  the  dark  blue  of  the  police." 

And  he  smiled  a  little  bitterly,  thinking  for  how 
many  years  he  himself  had  been  the  highest  ofiScial 
of  that  very  force.  Now,  however,  he  was  on  the 
other  side  of  the  hedge. 

But  the  White  Pope  would  have  nothing  of  this. 
He  would  go  down  and  find  out  for  himself. 

"I  see  a  bier  and  a  woman  weeping!"  he  said. 
That  was  enough.  So  following  the  rider  we  made 
our  way  after  him,  hoping  that  we  were  no  longer 
in  the  region  where  the  presence  of  the  White  Pope 
was  known, 

"A  bier  and  a  woman!"  he  muttered  (being  near- 
est I  could  hear  him),  and  then  something  that 
sounded  like,  "Over  the  hill  to  Bethany."  And  I 
gathered  that  he  was  thinking  of  that  Lazarus  who 
rose  on  the  fourth  day  after  his  burying.  Then  he 
sighed.  For  from  him  went  forth  no  power  to  work 
such  miracles  as  are  against  nature,  and  in  these 
latter  days  the  dead  rise  not,  nor  is  the  stone  rolled 
away  from  the  sepulchre  mouth,  even  at  the  com- 
mand of  the  White  Pope. 

Only  comforting,  and  grace,  and  power  over  the 
souls  of  men  abode  in  him.  But  being  very  pitiful, 
he  mourned  that  he  had  not  power  over  their  bodies 
also.    We  found  here  an  assembly  of  twenty  or  sOy 


118       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

most  of  them  citizens  of  Viesti  who  had  come  up 
with  the  commissary  of  police  and  his  cohort,  others 
peasants  from  the  hills  whom  the  unexpected  flack- 
ing of  so  many  human  creatures  had  brought  down 
like  birds  of  prey  from  their  eyries. 

We  were  close  upon  them  before  any  was  aware 
of  our  approach.  But  the  trampling  of  the  horse  at 
last  caused  them  to  turn.  Then  through  the  gap 
that  was  made  we  could  see  a  woman  standing,  pale 
and  dazed,  a  young  woman,  dark  of  skin  and  eye — 
while  before  her  another  raged  incoherently  with 
filthy  and  evil  words — a  plumper,  more  luxurious 
woman  she,  with  hair  of  Venetian  red.  And  with 
every  gesture  she  made  as  if  to  tear  the  first  in 
pieces. 

"What  is  this?  I  bid  you  tell  me!"  said  the  White 
Pope,  calmly,  but  with  the  voice  that  cleft  to  the 
soul  and  marrow. 

The  police  turned  angrily  enough.  But  at  the 
sight  of  the  General's  uniform  they  saluted.  One 
grizzled  veteran  standing  erect  put  the  shrinking 
woman  behind  him,  with  his  hand  warding  off  the 
red-haired  fury. 

"General,"  he  said,  "this  is  the  daughter  of  that 
Maria  Perrone,  whom  once  you  saved,  and  of  Leo 
the  lighthouseman  on  the  Tremiti  Islands.  Marghe- 
rita  is  her  name.  She  was  jealous  of  her  husband, 
this  Raphael  Rodi  here — I  say  not  without  cause — 
of  that  the  law  shall  judge.  We  are  taking  her  to 
prison  and  Raphael,  poor  man,  to  the  final  resting- 
bed  of  all  such  gamesome  lads,  the  cemetery!" 


CHAPTER  XIII :    MESHES  OF  GOLDEN  HAIR 

"She  was  but  a  little  maid  when  I  saw  her  last," 
muttered  the  veteran  Cipriano,  gnawing  his  mous- 
tache.   "It  cannot  already  have  come  to  this! " 

The  White  Pope  dismounted,  and  entered  the 
throng.  His  mother  had  taken  the  reins  at  the 
beast's  head,  moving  as  it  were  instinctively. 

It  was  curious  to  notice  how  all  fell  back  before 
him,  leaving  him  face  to  face  with  the  women.  I 
say  women,  for  the  other,  she  of  the  Venetian  red- 
gold  hair,  held  her  place  also.  The  man's  body 
roughly  modelled  under  a  moist  white  cloth,  like 
some  sculptured  clay,  was  stretched,  stiff  and  angu- 
lar betwen  them. 

The  White  Pope  v/ent  forward  and  softly  raised 
the  face-cloth.  I  saw  the  features  of  a  man,  brave 
and  lusty  by  his  nature,  with  lips  from  which  the 
red  blood  had  hardly  yet  ebbed  away.  His  eyes  had 
not  closed  (perhaps  could  not  be)  but  gazed  fixedly 
at  the  empty  heaven.  There  was  not  even  a  film 
upon  them.  Save  for  a  stiffly-drawn,  unequal  mouth 
I  could  not  believe  the  man  dead. 

The  crowd,  tired  with  shouting  imprecations  at  the 
supposed  murderess  of  her  husband,  fell  silent.  Even 
the  red-haired  woman  folded  her  arms  and  looked 
defiant.    It  was  the  beginning  of  the  strange  effect 

119 


120       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

constantly  produced  by  the  mere  presence  of  the 
White  Pope,  even  in  places  where  he  was  unknown. 
Partly,  I  think,  it  was  the  caped  ecclesiastical  robe 
of  white,  partly  the  look  upon  his  countenance,  even 
before  a  word  of  speech  had  fallen  from  his  lips. 

The  chief  of  police  saluted.  He  had  something 
to  say.  For  a  moment  it  seemed  as  if  he  were  about 
to  speak  to  the  White  Pope.  But  finally  it  was  to 
his  superior  officer  that  he  addressed  himself,  wood- 
enly,  as  if  making  a  report. 

"Excellency,"  he  said,  "this  man  Raphael  Rodi 
has  died  of  the  administering  of  the  white  powder 
called  arsenic  in  his  soup.  We  have  tried  what  re- 
mained on  a  dog  and  two  piglings.  They  are  all 
three  dead.  Also  the  crystals  are  yet  in  the  bottom 
of  the  pot.  The  woman,  his  wife,  prepared  the  broth. 
She  sat  at  the  table  with  him.  Yet  of  these  two  she 
escaped  alive.  We  have  striven  to  protect  her  from 
the  fury  of  the  populace,  who  would  tear  her  to 
pieces- 


"Aye,  throw  her  from  the  cliffs— burn  her  alive!" 
shouted  the  crowd,  recovering  from  its  surprise  at 
the  intervention,  "we  will  have  her  life.  She  is  a 
true  daughter  of  the  slayer  of  Lupo  the  Wolf." 

The  General  moved  his  hand,  and  the  Commis- 
sioner of  police  made  the  crowding  folk  give  back, 
with  many  cunning  thrusts  of  the  carbine-butt.  But 
still  the  red-haired  woman  held  her  ground  like  one 
who  has  a  right. 

"Who  is  she?"  said  the  General,  pointing  di- 
rectly at  her. 


MESHES  OF  GOLDEN  HAIR  121 

Then  whether  to  impress  the  crowd  or  with  a  sin- 
cere outbreak  of  sorrow,  she  took  the  dead  man's 
head  between  her  arms  and  rocked  herself  to  and  fro 
in  an  agony  of  grief. 

The  chief  of  pohce  smiled  and  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders in  a  well-advised,  worldly-wise  way. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "it  is  doubtless  because  of  her  that 
all  these  things  have  happened.  Raphael  there  was 
perhaps  no  worse  than  other  men.  But  he  knew  less 
well  how  to  conceal  his  frailties.  And  to  tell 
truth,  this  Venetian  woman  made  a  parade  of  her 
shame!  Few  women  of  Apulia  could  stand  such 
treatment,  least  of  all  the  daughter  of  Leo  Perrone 
and  Maria  his  wife.  Now  if  this  Margherita  had 
dusted  a  little  of  the  Borgian  salt  in  the  broth  of  La 
Veniziana  yonder,  no  trouble  would  have  happened. 
But  a  woman's  very  own  husband  is  another  matter. 
There  is  the  law  to  be  satisfied!" 

"I  will  satisfy  the  law,"  said  the  White  Pope.  "To 
your  places,  men.  Back,  I  command  you.  There — 
I  would  speak  with  the  two  women — thus — with  the 
dead  between  them!" 

Then  he  spoke.  I  shall  never  forget  how.  It  was 
as  when  the  Carpenter's  Son  put  all  from  him  that 
He  might  speak  to  the  woman  flagrantly  taken.  But 
I,  being  directly  behind,  he  had  not  commanded  to 
stand  back.    Therefore  it  happens  that  I  heard. 

"Which  of  you  two  loved  this  man?"  said  he,  look- 
ing from  one  to  the  other. 

Mark — not  a  word  as  to  who  had  hated  Raphael 
Rodi — or  why. 


122       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

"I— I— Most  Holy  Father!"  cried  the  Venetian, 
castmg  up  her  hands  and  swearing  great  mouth-fill- 
ing oaths  like  a  blustering  man.  But  he  regarded 
her  not  greatly. 

"I  love  him  even  now — I  am  his  wife!"  said  the 
other,  who  was  Margherita,  daughter  of  Leo  Per- 
rone.    And  his  eyes  dwelt  upon  her  long  and  stilly. 

La  Veniziana  tossed  her  web  of  red-gold  hair  and 
turned  a  tear-stained  face  to  the  crowd. 

"Listen  to  what  the  murderess  says,"  she  cried, 
"that  she  loved  this  man — ha!  Such  love — to  put 
poison  in  his  cup!" 

But  Margherita  stood  dry-eyed. 

"He  was  coming  back  to  me,"  she  muniiured, 
gently,  her  hand  smoothing  a  fold  of  the  bier-cloth, 
"she  knew  it  and  hated  him.  Therefore  this  has  hap- 
pened." 

Then  the  White  Pope  bent  towards  the  red-haired 
Venetian  woman.  "Be  sure,"  he  said  slowly  and  dis- 
tinctly, "that  the  packet  which  is  in  your  breast  slips 
not  to  the  ground!  Go  your  way.  It  is  enough  that 
/know!" 

It  was  enough  for  him,  doubtless,  but  not  for  the 
woman.  With  a  sudden  harsh  cry  she  sank  down  at 
the  bier-foot,  clutching  at  the  mort-cloth,  so  that  the 
man  lay  before  all  that  assembly  swathed  only  in  his 
linen  bandages.  And  Margherita  his  wife  cast  her- 
self at  length  upon  him  as  if  to  hide  a  shame.  But 
the  Venetian  woman  lay  all  her  length  on  the 
ground,  twisting  horribly,  smitten  by  a  sudden  stroke 


MESHES  OF  GOLDEN  HAIR  123 

which  distorted  her  face  and  caused  her  hands  to 
tear  even  the  mort-cloth  to  shreds. 

Then  at  the  veiy  foot  of  the  dead  and  in  sight  of 
all  men,  from  the  half-unlaced  fazziola  of  her  bodice 
there  fell  a  packet  done  in  stiff  brown  paper,  which, 
bursting,  disgorged  on  the  ground  a  powder  glisten- 
ing and  white  as  crystals  of  salt. 

"Ha,  the  murderess!  Tear  her  to  pieces!"  cried 
the  inconstant  folk,  the  same  who,  a  few  moments 
before  had  been  hurling  threats  and  maledictions  at 
the  wife  of  Raphael  Rodi. 

But  the  White  Pope  stayed  them,  police  and  angry 
people  alike.  With  a  single  wave  of  the  hand  he 
stayed  them.  And  I,  who  had  seen  the  vomiting 
Trasteveran  and  the  rift  running  suddenly  across  the 
solid  earth,  like  a  crack  across  a  lantern-slide  kept 
too  long  before  the  blown  lime,  expected  nothing  less 
than  the  levin-bolt! 

"Vengeance  is  mine — I  will  repay,  saith  the  Lord," 
cried  the  White  Pope.  "Carry  them  out  together  to 
the  burial — the  man  and  the  woman  together,  whom 
God  hath  smitten." 

And  in  effect,  the  woman  was  dead  even  as  he 
said. 

Then  very  gently  the  White  Pope  took  the  hand 
of  Margherita,  the  daughter  of  Leo  Perrone,  and 
drew  her  away  from  the  body  of  the  man  her  Jius- 
band. 

"If  he  has  done  wrong,  he  has  been  judged,  little 
one,"  he  said,  "and,  after  suffering,  the  Most  High 
is  faithful  and  just  to  forgive!" 


124       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

And  so  he  unclasped  her  hands,  lingeringly  loyal 
in  spite  of  all. 

Then  the  police,  saluting  the  General  and  the 
White  Pope,  lifted  first  the  man  upon  the  bier. 
Then,  plaiting  a  couch  of  their  hands  the  folk  of 
Viesti  lifted  the  woman  that  was  a  sinner,  whose 
favour  had  slain  Raphael  Rodi.  Alid  as  they  carried 
her  out,  the  long  hair  fell  in  yard-long  tresses,  fine 
spun  like  red  gold  from  the  beater's  mallet,  so  that 
the  ringlets  she  had  been  so  proud  of  swept  the  dust 
of  the  pathway. 

Then  it  seemed  that  some  part  of  the  spirit  of 
the  White  Pope  passed  into  the  soul  of  the  woman 
wronged. 

"God  pardon  her!"  she  said,  "because  she  saw 
him  coming  back  to  me — therefore  it  was  she  slew 
him!" 

But  at  the  same  time,  considering  the  anger  of 
the  people  of  Gargano  and  Viesti,  perhaps  it  was  as 
well  for  La  Veneziana  that  she  also  was  dead. 


CHAPTER  XIV:  THE  STRONG  MAN  LEO 

In  the  boat  which  went  bounding  over  the  dap- 
pled sapphire  and  amethyst  of  Adria  towards  the 
Tremiti  Islands  were  the  men  whom  the  White  Pope 
had  called  to  him.  First  of  all,  Vergas  the  priest,  of 
whom  there  is  not  much  to  tell,  save  that  he  shrank 
from  the  regard  of  Brother  Christopher,  as  a  cur 
from  the  eye  of  his  master.  Truth  to  tell  I  never 
liked  Vergas,  but  this  feeling  I  had  at  least  the  grace 
to  be  ashamed  of.  He  had  not  been  a  soldier  like 
Cipriano  or  a  far-wandered  Ishmaelite  like  myself. 
And  the  manners  which  were  good  enough  for 
Brother  Christopher — well,  to  put  it  shortly,  I  cher- 
ished in  my  unworthy  heart  a  certain  contemning 
jealousy  of  Father  Vergas. 

Then  beside  the  General  there  was  a  man  who  had 
leaped  aboard  at  the  last  moment,  seizing  an  oar  and 
hiding  himself  behind  a  sail.  It  was  Zini,  whom  the 
White  Pope  had  dismissed.  Then  came  the  two 
women,  of  whom  Mary  Orloff  crouched  in  the  bow 
at  Zini's  back,  saying  no  word  (both,  as  it  were,  be- 
ing there  on  suff ranee)  while  Margherita,  daughter 
of  Leo  and  Maria,  sitting  close  to  the  White  Pope 
handled  an  oar  or  trimmed  the  sail,  mechanically 
perhaps,  but  certainly  better  than  any  of  us. 

Gargano  towered  above  us — a  slight  haze  from  the 

125 


126       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

quaking,  fuming  Trasteveran  blowing  seaward  across 
it.  It  was  indeed  time  to  be  going.  But  this  we 
knew — that  the  people  of  Viesti  would  not  reveal 
whither  we  had  come.  The  death  of  the  golden- 
haired  Venetian  had  settled  that  matter.  Whether 
she  had  partaken  of  the  broth — whether,  seeing  her- 
self entrapped,  she  had  had  some  more  cunning  prep- 
aration ready  to  end  all  things — or  whether,  in  due 
and  ancient  phrase,  she  died  "by  the  Visitation  of 
God,"  I  know  not.  Nor  will  it  ever  be  known.  For 
in  free,  homicidal  Italy  there  are  no  serious  coroner's 
inquests,  while  even  a  trial  by  jury  can  be  put  off 
from  month  to  month  and  from  year  to  year,  as  men 
have  seen  in  the  late  matter  of  the  family  Murri  of 
Bologna. 

At  any  rate  the  isles  of  Tremiti  rose  opaline  be- 
fore us  out  of  the  violet  sea,  and,  upon  the  outmost, 
the  tall  column  of  Leo  Perrone's  lighthouse  faintly 
flushed  with  pink  like  the  inside  of  a  shell. 

Leo  himself  stood  erect,  watching  the  incoming 
boat,  upon  the  little  spit  of  rock  which  served  as 
pier  and  landing-stage  to  the  Isle  Tremitian.  Years 
had  whitened  his  thatch  of  hair,  but  had  not  les- 
sened his  stern  dignity  of  port.  His  eyes  were  fixed 
on  that  part  of  the  boat,  where  sat  together  his 
daughter  Margherita  and  the  White  Pope.  The  girl 
steered,  carelessly  and  accustomedly. 

Of  the  rest  of  us  Leo  Perrone  took  no  heed.  The 
General  was  behind  the  sail,  and  till  that  was 
dropped  at  the  entrance  of  the  little  rock-basin  both 
he  and  Zini  were  invisible. 


THE  STRONG  MAN  LEO  127 

"Margherita,"  cried  her  father,  "where  is  Raphael 
Rodi,  your  husband?" 

The  girl,  with  a  kind  of  shivering  sob,  fell  back 
against  the  rudder  of  the  boat.  The  White  Pope 
stepped  quickly  ashore.  The  boat  having  lost  its 
way,  was  on  the  turn,  and  with  the  quickness  of  one 
trained  to  such  feats,  he  stood  suddenly  on  the  black- 
weedy  rock  looking  into  the  eyes  of  Leo  Perrone. 

I  could  hardly  attend  to  my  business  of  landing, 
for  watching  this  first  meeting  of  the  White  Pope 
and  the  ancient  man-slayer.  The  brows  of  Leo  Per- 
rone were  knotted  thick  and  fierce,  and  his  hands 
were  clenched  nervously. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  growled,  his  gaze,  however, 
seeking  the  ground.  For  before  Brother  Christopher 
it  was  with  us  all  as  with  the  wild  beasts  in  a 
menagerie — all,  that  is,  except  a  few  still-browed 
women.  They  could  meet  him  eye  to  eye.  But  men, 
without  exception,  were  humbled  before  him  like  so 
many  whipped  curs. 

Nevertheless  he  repeated  his  question,  his  manner 
more  surly  than  before. 

"I  am  the  Pope!"  said  Brother  Christopher, 
quietly. 

Now  it  was  a  thing  most  curious  that  though  men 
well-born,  educated,  far-travelled,  might  doubt  Pope 
Christopher's  announcement  of  his  quality,  rude  un- 
learned men  never  did.  They  had  always  heard  of 
the  Pope,  and  somehow  it  seemed  natural  to  them 
that  he  should  stand  there,  before  them,  in  their 
own  house  and  country.     So  Leo  Perrone,  on  the 


128       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

Tremiti  Islands,  with  Gargano  like  a  rusty  molehill 
against  the  wine-purple  of  Manfredonia,  found  it 
natural  that  a  Pope  should  land  unannounced  at  his 
rock-quay,  and  bring  home  his  daughter. 

It  was  to  see  over  the  lighthouse,  of  course.  That 
must  be  his  purpose.  Never  was  such  a  marvel  of  a 
lighthouse.  Maria  and  he  kept  it  like  a  jewel,  from 
foundation  of  mitred  stone  to  the  last  flashing  panes 
which  could  only  be  reached  by  standing  on  the  rim 
of  the  lantern  gallery.  And  when  he  was  cleaning 
these  a  grey-haired  woman  clutched  his  coat-tails 
and  prayed. 

"I  will  tell  you,"  said  the  White  Pope,  "your  son- 
in-law  is  dead — also  the  woman  by  whom  he  went 
to  his  death.  The  honest  earth  covers  them  as 
kindly  as  any  others.  Therefore  I  have  brought  you 
back  your  daughter.  She  has  need  of  you,  of  a 
home,  of  her  mother." 

By  this  time  the  boat  had  come  to  rest  at  its  due 
and  proper  anchorage.    We  went  ashore. 

Then  the  White  Pope  took  the  girl  by  the  hand 
and  set  it  within  that  of  her  father. 

"Take  her  to  her  mother!"  he  said. 

And  Leo  Perrone,  with  no  eyes  even  for  the  man 
who  in  the  old  time  had  saved  him,  with  no  thought 
but  to  obey  the  commands  of  the  new  prophet,  did 
as  he  was  bidden,  and  took  the  girl  to  her  mother. 

We  stood  and  looked  at  one  another.  The  Gen- 
eral, who  had  the  word  rough  and  ready — a  little  hot 
sometimes — would  have  called  him  back.  There 
were  serious  matters  to  be  discussed — the  comings 


THE  STRONG  MAN  LEO  129 

and  goings  of  the  liners — when  the  government  re- 
lief boat  would  arrive  with  supplies,  and  the  best 
means  of  getting  the  White  Pope  to  a  safer  country 
than  Italy.  But  Leo  Perrone  led  his  daughter  up 
the  white  path.  Her  head  drooped  lower  as  she 
neared  the  tall  rosy-white  column  of  the  Tremiti 
light,  and  I  could  see  the  right  arm  of  her  father 
steal  comfortingly  about  her  under  pretence  of  aid- 
ing at  the  steep  places. 

Suddenly  the  door  was  filled.  The  oblong  of  in- 
tense black  showed  a  tall  woman  with  a  kerchief  of 
blue  about  her  shoulders.  Yet  another  covered  her 
head.  She  stood  a  moment  uncertainly.  Hastily 
Leo  explained  something — or  at  least,  tried  to.  We 
could  see  him  turn  towards  the  White  Pope.  But  I 
doubt  much  if  he  was  understood.  I  know  it  was 
little  matter  or  no.  For  the  next  moment  the  girl 
Margherita  was  weeping  the  hurt  of  her  soul  out  on 
the  bosom  of  her  mother,  than  which  no  better  place 
could  be. 

We  turned  away.    It  was  no  place  for  men. 

The  General  Cipriano,  who  always  wished  every- 
thing to  be  done  at  once,  fumed  like  a  soldier  accus- 
tomed to  say  to  this  one  "Come,"  and  if  this  one 
did  not,  why — he  heard  about  it. 

But  the  White  Pope  concerned  himself  with 
higher  matters.  He  had  spied  Zini,  and  called  him 
up  for  judgment. 

"Did  I  not  tell  you,"  he  said,  with  his  usual  quiet, 
only  with  something  of  the  tenderness  left  out,  "to 
abide  in  your  own  country,  and  there  to  deliver  the 


130       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

teaching.  You  have  disobeyed  and  (it  may  be)  to 
the  loss  of  your  soul." 

"I  care  not  for  that,"  quoth  Zini,  boldly,  "so  be 
that  I  follow  you!  I  cannot  preach,  and  my  last 
practice  has  been  so  indifferent  that  all  men  would 
laugh  if  I  turned  Gospeller.  But  ere  you  went,  by 
chance  I  heard  you  speak  of  the  armies  gathering 
to  fall  upon  you — of  fighting  that  should  bring  about 
the  end  of  all  things.  'Ha,  Zini,'  said  I,  ^He  does  not 
know.  But  you  know,  my  Zini,  this  is  better  than 
preaching.  To  fight  is  Zini's  mission.'  Send  Vergas 
there,  to  preach.  But,  consider,  one  soldier  already 
has  been  taken  to  command — Cipriano  yonder,  the 
General,  who  hunted  me  so  long.  You  will  need  one 
to  obey.  Lo,  here  am  I,  Zini!  By  your  own  word, 
by  your  own  prophecy,  there  will  be  need  of  me!" 

The  countenance  of  the  White  Pope  lost  its  stern- 
ness.   Relaxing  gradually,  he  smiled. 

"Then  if  need  be,  you  would  lose  your  soul  for 
me?"  he  said,  softly. 

Zini  laughed  and  snapped  the  finger  and  thumb  of 
one  hand. 

"A  little  matter,"  he  said,  "for  till  I  heard  you 
speak  I  never  knew  or  cared  whether  I  had  a  soul 
to  win  or  to  lose.  But  such  as  it  is,  soul  and  body 
of  Zini  the  brigand  are  yours  to  do  what  you  will 
with.  Only,  I  warn  you,  I  cannot  preach.  Men. 
might  laugh!  And  then — why  then — things  would 
happen.  Sometimes  I  am  not  yet  sure  that  the 
Kingdom  of  God  is  within  me.  But  when  I  am 
vexed  and  there  is  a  knife  in  my  hand,  I  am  alto- 


THE  STRONG  MAN  LEO  131 

gether  certain  that  the  devil  has  a  middling  tight 
hold  of  poor  Zini.  At  any  rate,  it  were  better  not  to 
run  any  risks." 

Then  from  the  door  of  the  lighthouse  Leo  came 
down — the  very  strong  man,  Leo.  And  because  of 
what  he  left  behind  him,  there  were  the  marks  of 
tears  on  his  face,  for  which  he  cared  nothing,  being 
as  I  have  said,  a  very  strong  man. 


CHAPTER  XV:     THE  RED  FUNNEL  LINER 

We  lay  well  out  on  the  fair  steamer-track  waiting 
foi-  the  English  liner  from  Venice.  Maria  Perrone 
and  her  daughter  Margherita  had  accompanied  us 
to  the  landing-place.  Now  they  could  be  seen  stand- 
ing together  in  the  black  rectangle  of  the  doonv^ay 
high  upon  the  lighthouse  platform.  The  White 
Pope  stood  with  one  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  Leo 
Perrone,  as  he  steadied  the  boat  with  the  great  steer- 
ing oar. 

The  smoke  of  the  big  English  liner  had  already 
begun  to  mount,  building  up  in  the  north  as  if  a 
new  Trasteveran  had  arisen  from  the  sea-deeps  of 
the  Adriatic.  We  had  been  but  few  hours  upon  the 
Isles  of  Tremiti,  yet  already,  save  for  the  nightly 
lightning  of  the  beacon  aloft,  Leo  and  all  his  would 
have  followed  the  new  prophet. 

With  the  mindfulness  which  never  failed  nor 
tired,  the  Pope  was  blessing  Leo.  His  hand  moved 
from  his  shoulder  slowly  upward  till  it  rested  on  the 
grey  shaggy  head. 

"Sin, — "  he  said  softly,  repeating  a  word  which 
Leo  had  used,  "there  is  no  sin  without  pardon  save 
that  of  resisting  the  Spirit.  And  the  Spirit  is  the 
god  that  moves  within  you.  Yes,  pray — for  by 
prayer  is  man's  heart  purified.    I  cannot  tell  whether 

132 


THE  RED  FUNNEL  LINER  133 

the  Creator  God,  the  Lord  of  all  Stars,  hears  or  no ! 
But  how  little  does  it  matter,  if  in  your  own  heart 
there  springs  a  tree  which  bears  good  fruit.  By 
your  own  fruit  ye  shall  know  yourself." 

"But,"  said  Leo,  looking  wistfully  out  upon  the 
sea,  now  violet  in  the  deeps  and  whitish  green  in  the 
shallows,  upon  which  the  hull  and  masts  of  the  liner 
were  showing  distinctly,  "I  am  noways  sure  that  1 
do  indeed  repent.  If — if  The  Wolf,  he  whom  I 
slew,  were  once  more  to  stand  before  me  in  the  flesh, 
and  my  wife's  market-knife  lay  on  the  baking-board 
— if  the  husband  of  my  daughter,  Raphael  Rodi,  yet 
lived — ah,  well  (he  broke  off  shortly)  it  is  no  use, 
I  am  a  sinful  man  and  a  violent.  I  must  suffer  that 
which  is  my  portion!" 

Then  the  voice  of  the  White  Pope  grew  tender  and 
came  very  low  in  his  ear,  so  that  only  I,  immediately 
behind,  could  hear. 

"One  Greater  than  I  said  of  old  time,  'Whosoever 
asketh,  receiveth.'  It  is  a  true  word.  I  have  found 
it  even  so.  And  you,  Leo  Perrone,  who  are  so  care- 
ful to  measure  the  beam  that  is  in  your  own  eye, 
may  find  hereafter  that  it  is  but  a  mote!" 

The  English  steamer  climbed  high  up  out  of  the 
water.  There  was  a  slight  wind  from  the  north, 
and  down  it  we  could  hear  very  plainly  the  tramping 
throb  of  her  engines.  As  the  smoke  swept  away  to 
the  right  with  the  rapid  motion  of  the  vessel, 
glimpses  of  a  red  flag  with  a  square  of  multicoloured 
corner  bars  broke  through  so  once  and  again — which, 
being  no  Little  Islander,  made  my  heart  beat. 


134.       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

They  were  accustomed  to  the  waiting  boat  from 
the  lighthouse.  They  had  bundles  of  papers  ready — 
Italian  for  Leo  to  read,  and  illustrated  ones  with 
the  text  printed  in  various  languages.  These  were 
for  his  wife.  Maria's  was  a  favourite  tale  with  the 
officers,  and  generally  the  cabin  ladies  made  up  a 
parcel  of  woman's  things  for  her,  wrapping  them 
carefully,  unseen  of  mankind,  in  the  patterns  of  the 
latest  fashion  journal. 

A  knot  of  officers  stood  watching  upon  the  bridge. 
Passengers  crowded  the  port  bulwarks.  It  was  Gen- 
eral Cipriano  who  spoke,  shouting  as  if  to  a  brigade. 

"Pope  Christopher  the  First  seeks  the  shelter  of 
the  British  flag.  Also  among  his  humble  followers 
an  English  subject.  Sir  Lucas  Cargill,  and  I,  General 
Victor  Cipriano,  Generalissimo  of  the  Capitanate." 

The  vessel  swept  past  with  lordly  gait.  We  were 
tossing  on  the  huge  roll  of  her  displacement.  Then 
came  the  broken  water,  and  we  were  drenched  with 
spray.  Our  hearts  sank.  For  we  all  thought  that 
the  liner  had  left  us  behind  to  be  a  prey  to  our 
enemies. 

But  the  tall  figure  in  the  white  robe,  with  one 
hand  laid  gently  on  Leo's  shoulder,  and  the  general's 
uniform  of  Victor  Cipriano,  as  he  stood  saluting — 
more  than  all  the  wonder  of  his  hasty  words  had 
done  their  work.  The  Istria  of  the  Red  Funnel 
swept  in  a  great  curve  to  a  station  nearly  abreast  of 
us,  where  she  lay  motionless,  with  her  ladder  down 
like  a  King's  ship.  (They  did  things  in  regal  fash- 
ion on  the  Red  Funnel  Line.) 


THE  RED  FUNNEL  LINER  135 

The  White  Pope  bent  to  kiss  Leo  the  lighthouse 
man  upon  the  cheek. 

"Have  no  fear,"  he  murmured,  "cleave  to  your 
true  wife  yonder,  and  by  her  faith,  together  with 
that  in  your  own  heart,  ye  shall  stand  in  That  Day. 
If  for  what  ye  have  done  to  me  and  mine  men  call 
you  to  account — even  if  they  lead  you  to  the  death, 
for  that — for  the  future — for  eternity  itself — take  no 
thought.  It  is  sufficient  for  any  man  to  do  his  duty 
in  the  present.  Farewell.  Up  yonder  your  wife 
and  daughter  are  waiting  for  you.  Also  there  are 
the  reflectors  to  burnish.  These  things  shall  save 
your  soul,  more  than  a  continual  crying  of  'Lord, 
Lord!'" 

And  the  White  Pope  went  first  up  the  ladder  of 
the  Istria,  to  be  received  by  an  English  captain  and 
English  officers.  Leo  Perrone  was  left  rocking  in  his 
boat,  which  seemed  suddenly  to  be  filled  with  a 
great  emptiness.  For  a  moment  there  came  on  him 
an  infinite  longing  to  spring  up  the  ladder  after  his 
master  as  Zini  had  done.  But  he  remembered  the 
woman  who  had  given  her  life  for  him — ^her  soul  also 
in  so  far  as  she  could. 

So  he  turned  the  heavy  fisher's  boat  and  dipped 
his  long  flat  sculls  into  the  blue  of  Adria.  He  heard 
behind  him  a  trumpeting  shout,  and  the  starting 
tread  of  the  engines.  But  Leo  Perrone  never  turned 
his  head.  He  would  go  back  and  work  out  his  own 
salvation  as  he  had  been  bidden. 

The  Red  Funnel  liner  Istria  was  making  excellent 


136       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

time  down  the  Adriatic.  Cabins  had  been  found  for 
the  unexpected  addition  to  the  passenger  list.  Cab- 
ins are  not  scarce  on  the  home  boats  from  Venice. 
But  the  engineer,  whose  day's  run  had  been  spoiled, 
was  in  a  very  bad  temper,  and  his  subordinates  were 
informed  in  good  Clydeside  how  many  different 
kinds  of  domestic  animals  they  resembled,  and  what 
a  triple-expansion  fool  he,  the  engineer,  was  ever  to 
have  shipped  along  with  such  a  lot  of  incapable 
dock-rat  rubbish,  the  sweepings  of  the  Liverpool 
landing  stages. 

"I  might  have  seen  if  I  had  only  had  the  sense 
to  look  you  over  first!"  he  concluded  bitterly. 

The  captain  conferred  with  his  first  lieutenant. 
As  usual  he  had  much  to  say,  and  the  second  in 
command  had  to  be  careful  in  his  replies,  or  he  might 
not  always  have  been  able  to  agree  with  his  superior 
officer,  so  quickly  did  the  point  of  view  of  the  latter 
alter. 

"There  is  the  coaling  at  Malta,"  suggested  the 
first  lieutenant  gingerly,  "and  then  the  mails  at  Mar- 
seilles. Malta  is  pretty  well  all  right — our  own 
stamping  ground,  as  it  were.  Nothing  mujch  will 
happen  there.  But  at  Marseilles  we  will  see  some- 
thing or  my  name's  not  Jackson." 

Now  according  to  certificate  the  first  lieutenant's 
name  was  Jackson,  and  Captain  Stark  of  the  Istria 
seemed  to  take  the  statement  as  a  kind  of  personal 
insult. 

"I  am  the  captain  of  a  Royal  Mail  steamer  flying 


THE  RED  FUNNEL  LINER  137 

the  flag  of  my  countrj^,"  he  said  with  dignity,  "and  I 
should  admire  to  see  the  man " 

The  first  lieutenant  (one  is  dismissed  without  a 
character  for  using  the  word  "mate"  on  the  R.  F. 
Line)  thought  within  himself  that  Captain  Stark, 
of  the  Istria,  was  likely  to  see  not  one  man  but  ten 
thousand  men,  if  he  ventured  inside  the  Chateau 
d'lf  of  Marseilles  with  the  White  Pope  on  board. 
But,  being  a  canny  lad  (hailing  from  Leith  and  with 
his  way  to  make  in  the  world)  he  said  nothing.  In 
any  case  it  was  not  his  business. 

At  Malta,  Captain  Stark  ought  certainly  to  have 
taken  warning.  The  mere  breath  of  the  presence 
of  the  White  Pope  on  board  the  Red  Funnel  liner 
nearly  caused  that  vessel  to  be  taken  by  escalade 
Troops  were  hurried  across  the  harbour  to  the  water 
front.  Blue-jackets  and  marines  mustered  hastily. 
And  through  all  the  city  of  the  "cursed  streets  of 
stairs"  there  blew  the  first  breath  of  an  awakening 
world. 

Vague  vain  hopes  kindled  in  the  breasts  of  men. 
Nothing  more  experienced  in  wickedness  is  to  be 
found  in  the  seven  seas  than  the  average  Maltese — 
his  very  name  is  a  byeword  for  mixed  iniquity,  his 
speech  a  thieves'  lingua  franca.  But — with  the  first 
strange  breath  of  the  coming  of  the  newly  elected 
Pope,  escaped  from  prelates  and  priests  and  the 
great  of  the  earth,  come  to  be  the  companion  and 
hope  of  the  lowest — the  strictly-policed  Levantine 
city  hummed  like  a  hive  before  the  swarming.  The 
narrow  streets  gave  back  the  clatter.    It  was  a  day 


138       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

of  much  danger  in  these  steep  stairways.  Who 
slipped,  fell.  Who  fell,  died.  For  tliere  was  no  time 
to  rise.  The  feet  trampled  remorselessly.  The 
drums  were  beating,  the  troops  marching.  If  they 
did  not  make  haste,  these  lean,  tawny  serpentine 
Maltese,  they  would  see  not  so  much  as  a  hair  of  the 
wonder-working  White  Pope,  who  had  come  so  far 
to  save  them. 

To  save  them — they  did  not  know  what  it  meant. 
Vague  drifts  of  hope  merely  crossed  their  minds. 
No  more  red-coated  "Tommies"  hacking  their  speech 
into  faggots  of  English  oaths!  No  more  great  iron 
battle-ships  lying  out  yonder,  black  on  the  blue 
water,  menacing,  emblematic  of  servitude!  They 
would  feel  free!    Free — free! 

Not  for  a  moment  did  they  stop  to  think  what 
this  would  really  mean.  Liberty  to  steal,  to  stab,  to 
pirate — that  is  what  it  would  have  come  to.  But  not 
a  man  stopped  to  bethink  himself.  The  breath  blew. 
The  Pope  was  come — the  White  Pope!  Their 
Saviour,  who  had  left  Rome,  to  come  to  them.  He 
would  tell  them  what  to  do.  And  so,  forthwith,  they 
flung  themselves  into  all  available  skiffs,  into  big 
four-oared  luggage  boats,  and  rowed  towards  the  en- 
tering liner.  Ere  she  had  ceased  to  move  they  flung 
coils  of  rope  on  board,  and  sometimes  the  Lascar 
seamen,  in  the  hurry  of  the  moment,  and  left  wholly 
without  orders,  would  draw  a  man  on  deck. 

He  was  heaved  •  overboard  again  incontinent,  as 
soon  as  Mr.  Jackson's  eye  dropped  upon  him.  Then 
the  Istria  let  down  anchor  with  a  sullen  plunge,  and 


THE  RED  FUNNEL  LINER  139 

immediately  half-a-score  were  scrambling  like  mon- 
keys up  the  cable,  while  the  boatswain,  the  carpen- 
ter, and  the  junior  officers  fought  them  off  with 
brushes  and  deck-swabbers.  The  Lascars  opened 
their  almond  eyes,  and  felt  that  their  knives  were 
ready  to  their  hand.    They  might  be  needed. 

Captain  Stark,  looking  down  from  the  bridge,  saw 
a  couple  of  fast  police-boats,  electric  launches,  doing 
their  best  to  scatter  the  black  gathering  multitude 
of  skiffs,  flashing  hither  and  thither  like  killer  v/hales 
driving  headlong  into  the  pack.  And  he  sent  down 
to  inquire  what  was  the  matter. 

"Matter,"  grumbled  Mr.  Jackson,  "why,  just  what" 
I  told  him.    They  want  to  see  the  White  Pope!" 

He  ascended  and  so  informed  his  superior  officer. 

"Well,  go  and  ask  him  to  come  on  deck!"  said  Cap- 
tain Stark,  briefly. 

First  Lieutenant  Jackson  looked  at  him  once, 
scared  for  perhaps  the  first  time  in  his  life. 

"I  don't  think  I  would  do  that,  sir!"  he  said  with 
submission.  "In  my  opinion  he  is  better  in  his 
cabin.  If  they  saw  him  in  those  white  togs  of  his — 
you  know  that's  the  regular  uniform  of  a  Pope? 
How  should  I  know?  Well,  there  was  a  picture  of 
a  Pope  used  to  hang  up  in  the  house  of  a  girl  I  knew 
at  Colombo.  At  any  rate  if  they  saw  the  Pope,  they 
would  think  we  were  keeping  him  prisoner,  and — 
well,  I  wouldn't  give  sixpence  for  the  life  of  any 
man  on  the  ship.  They  would  climb  up  our  naked 
sides  like  flies  on  the  ceiling!" 

"Hallo,  what's  that?"  exclaimed  the  captain,  "the 


140       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

Admiral's  big  mess-kettle  is  signalling!    It  can't  be 
for  us.    Some  of  their  own  war-games,  surely!" 

Now  Jackson  had  made  a  study  of  naval  codes, 
and  he  replied  slowly,  with  his  eye  on  the  fluttering 
buntmg.  "They  are  telling  us  to  keep  up  our 
steam,  and  to  move  to  another  anchorage  right  in 
the  middle  of  the  Mediterranean  Fleet — with  two 
battleships  in  front  of  us,  and  a  couple  of  cruisers 
closing  up  the  rear." 

The  captain  of  the  Red  Funnel  Liner  muttered 
the  opinion  which  highly-placed  officers  of  the  mer- 
cantile marine  hold  concerning  the  admirals  of  His 
Majesty's  senior  service. 

All  the  same  the  Istria  puffed,  clattered,  and 
swung  into  position,  her  lines  looking  like  those  of  a 
yacht  amid  the  towering  slabsides  and  piled  upper 
works  of  the  first-classers. 

The  police  boats,  now  reinforced  by  a  couple  of 
small  destroyers  and  one  submarine  of  the  most  re- 
cent t3^e,  patrolled  incessantly. 

So  the  White  Pope,  Christopher,  First  (and  Last) 
of  that  name,  who  had  left  the  Vatican  to  be  rid 
of  pomp,  found  himself  with  such  an  escort  of  the 
power  and  might  of  this  earth  as  never  Father  of 
the  Faithful  had  travelled  with  in  the  paltniest  days 
of  the  temporal  power. 


CHAPTER  XVI:  THE  LANDING  AT 
MARSEILLES 

But  all  this  was  as  nothing  to  what  was  waiting 
for  us  at  Marseilles.  Morse  and  Marconi,  submarine 
cable  and  point-to-point  land  telegraph  had  spread 
the  news.  The  world  was  moving  with  its  first  great 
idea.  At  last  the  Apostolate  of  the  Galilean  had  a 
successor.  At  last  Peter's  chair  had  been  filled — by 
a  man  who  had  left  it  vacant. 

Marseilles  had  been  signalled  as  the  next  stopping 
place  of  the  Istria,  escaped  from  Malta  under  the 
guns  of  the  British  Mediterranean  squadron.  At 
once  the  hot  Provengal  nature  which  naturally 
marches  in  step  to  the  "Marseillaise"  took  flame. 

From  all  the  valley  of  the  Rhone  as  far  as  Valence, 
the  trains  began  to  pour  in.  Passengers  clung  des- 
perately to  foot-boards  or  perilously  bestrode  iron 
buffers,  in  spite  of  white-capped  sous-chefs  and  the 
coffee-coloured  Mamelukes  of  the  Wagons-Lits.  Dif- 
ference of  class  vanished.  Princes  travelling  stiffly 
in  state,  or  incognito  in  charming  company  found 
their  privacy  invaded  by  tan-faced  men,  broad- 
hatted  from  the  mountains  to  the  back  of  Ventoux, 
and  brave  peasant-women  carrying  the  Arlesian  cos- 
tume nobly  as  in  a  procession.  But  apologies  and 
politeness  usually  won  a  way.     A  few  intrenched 

141 


142       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

themselves  in  that  stubborn  English  muteness — 
which  so  often  appears  supercilious  when  it  merely 
means  ignorance  of  the  language  or  the  fear  of  "mak- 
ing an  ass  of  oneself."  But  their  women,  princesses 
bom  or  of  a  day,  instinctively  unbent  to  these  good- 
humoured  pilgrims  of  the  Midi,  bent  on  making  the 
mightiest  crusade  the  world  had  ever  seen. 

As  my  friend  Merlou  affirmed,  all  women  are  of 
one  religion.  The  Word  must  be  made  flesh  and 
dwell  among  them.  They  must  see  the  White  Pope. 
If  possible  their  hands  must  touch,  'an  it  were  but 
the  hem  of  his  garment.  Thomas,  with  his  finger  in 
the  spear-thrust,  had  the  faith  of  a  woman.  And 
when  these  peasant  women  explained  to  their  chance 
neighbours,  in  such  French  as  they  could  muster, 
how  that  they  were  going  to  see  the  great  prophet, 
the  White  Pope,  who  had  left  all  behind  him  to  go 
about  the  world  speaking  wonderful  words  to  the 
poor  and  working  miracles,  great  ladies  threw  aside 
their  hauteur,  and  others  the  veils  which  hid  or 
heightened  the  cunning  of  brush  and  pencil. 

I  heard  the  tale  from  Merlou,  curator  of  the 
Provengal  museum,  who  from  the  safe  heights  of 
his  balcony,  giving  upon  the  Old  Port  of  Marseilles, 
saw  the  gathering  crush  along  the  landing-stages 
opposite  the  new  railway  station.  Black  and  dense 
grew  the  crowd,  the  pressure  increasing  every  min- 
ute. The  police  guards  and  customs  officials  were 
swept  away  in  five  seconds,  as  when  a  flood  leaps  a 
dam.  Some  were  precipitated  into  the  dock  slips, 
and  it  was  evident  to  the  port-officials  that  the  city 


THE  LANDING  AT  MARSEILLES        143 

was  upon  the  brink  of  a  great  disaster  as  soon  as 
ever  the  Istria  should  enter,  and  berth  alongside  her 
accustomed  pier. 

Something  must  be  done  and  that  with  exceeding 
promptitude.  The  harbour  master  went  out  on  the 
revenue  cutter  to  warn  the  Istria  to  come  directly 
into  the  Vieux  Port  of  Marseilles.  A  tug  was  ready- 
also,  with  steam  up,  to  assist  her.  Already  the  ships 
in  port  had  their  yards  manned  as  for  a  reception  of 
some  popular  visiting  sovereign. 

"I  saw  her  come  in"  (said  Merlou).  "It  was  early 
in  the  forenoon.  Jeanne  and  I  were  sitting  on  the 
balcony  together.  It  seemed  as  if  the  whole  world 
was  without  underneath  our  windows.  The  Quay 
of  the  Fraternity  was  black  with  people,  and  the 
Cannabiere  a  mere  twisting,  writhing  serpent 
through  its  entire  length. 

"Then  when  at  last  the  big  vessel  turned  towards 
the  forts  at  the  entrance  of  the  Old  Port,  away  from 
the  wharf  alongside  which  men  had  been  expecting 
her,  there  was  a  trampling  and  a  rush.  Then  a 
strange  hoarse  bellowing  like  many  sirens  of  ships. 
Up  the  new  Avenue  of  the  Republic  came  the  crowd. 
There  were,  I  think,  many  dead.  But  this  I  do  not 
certainly  know.  For  Jeanne  and  I  could  only  see 
their  heads,  and  over  every  open  space,  it  was  as  if 
on  the  big  Bottin  map  of  the  city  I  had  covered  the 
open  spaces  with  ink,  rubbing  it  broadly  with  the 
forefinger. 

"  'The  Pope !    The  White  Pope !' 

"That  was  what  they  cried,   Flaissieristes  and 


144<       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

Chanotins — red  and  blue,  and  ruddier  red — clericals, 
outcast  monks,  and  spies  of  the  Grand  Orient.  Each 
sectary  thought  that  the  White  Pope,  crowned  at 
Rome,  had  come  to  bring  triumph  to  his  own  par- 
ticular party.  Bah,  even  I  could  have  told  them 
better ! 

"Well,  Jeanne  and  I,  sitting  up  there  aloft,  waited. 
Even  Jeanne  was  moved.  I  could  hear  her  breath- 
ing quickening  its  pace,  there  was  the  dark  soft 
glitter  in  her  eye,  which  only  comes  in  times  of  great 
excitement.  As  for  me,  I  sat  still  with  the  proof- 
sheets  of  my  monograph  on  the  'Scepticism  of  Pas- 
cal' on  my  knee,  and  looked  for  turned  s's !  That  is 
why  I  was  able  to  see  so  much. 

"The  big  ship  came  majestically  in,  going  straight 
through  the  entrance  of  the  Old  Port,  while  in  the 
embrasures  the  gunners  fired  salutes  unreproved  by 
their  officers.  For  they  too  thought  that  it  would 
be  no  bad  thing  if  the  Church  should  come  to  its 
own  again.  They  dreamed  of  the  good  old  time  of 
promotion  according  to  attendance  at  Mass,  as  it 
was  before  the  Seize  Jours,  with  another  leader  less 
stupid  than  MacMahon  and  less  fly-by-night  than 
Boulanger. 

"Then  Jeanne,  gripping  me  hard  by  the  arm, 
caused  me  to  drop  my  pencil. 

"  'Look!'  she  cried,  'look! — The  Alpine  Chasseurs! 
I  see  the  blue  bonnets!' 

"And,  in  effect,  such  was  the  truth.  They  had 
come  straight  down  from  Grasse,  the  railways  being 
clearer  in  that  direction,  and  assisted  by  the  infan- 


THE  LANDING  AT  MARSEILLES        145 

try  from  the  Marseilles  casernes  they  forced  a  way 
through  the  crowd.  At  first  they  could  only  go  two 
by  two.  But  little  by  little  with  stroke  of  the  butt, 
given  half  laughingly,  and  amicable  shoulder  shov- 
ing to  right  and  left,  they  made  a  passage-way  and 
even  guarded  it,  their  bayonets  flashing  above  the 
black  pavement  of  the  people's  heads. 

"Now  as  you  know  Marseilles  had  gone  a  paler 
shade  of  red  at  the  last  elections,  in  spite  of  much 
stufi&ng  of  ballot-boxes.  The  Bishop  was  a  good 
man  and  true,  with  whom  the  new  Mayor  could  take 
council.  The  beaten  Socialists,  too,  felt  that  their 
time  had  come.  Had  not  the  White  Pope  cast  off  all 
pomps  and  vanities?  Their  masonic  lodges,  they 
argued,  were  founded  on  the  morality  of  the  Ser- 
mon on  the  Mount — which,  however,  so  far  as 
France  was  concerned,  had  somehow  got  left  up 
there  upon  the  mountain. 

"There  was  a  rapid  understanding  between  the 
parties.  Both  wished  the  White  Pope  to  land. 
Reds  and  Blues  were  equally  sure  that  he  would 
prove  to  be  of  their  faction.  Therefore  he  must  be 
brought  ashore.  Besides,  the  Istria  needed  coal,  and 
the  mails  must  be  disembarked.  But  where? — How? 
That  was  the  question — how  could  anyone  land 
through  that  surging  mass  ever  thickening  as  the 
folk  from  the  Ligurian  coast-lands  began  to  come  m, 
with  herdsmen  from  the  Camargue,  shepherds  from 
remote  La  Crau,  and  saltworkers,  scaled  like  fishes, 
from  the  marches  about  Aigues  Mortes. 

"If  once  that  body  of  excited  folk  began  to  move 


"N 


146       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

— why,  the  Commune  of  Paris  would  take  the  di- 
mensions of  a  village  squabble!  As  for  a  pulpit, 
the  White  Pope  must  speak  from  the  platform  in 
front  of  the  great  white  and  green  cathedral  of  Mar- 
seilles, on  which  the  millions  of  the  devout  had  been 
poured  for  half-a-century— as  it  seemed,  to  be  ready 
for  Him-Who-Should-Come. 

"The  ultra-clericals  held  that  he  must  speak  from 
the  pulpit  which  had  never  yet  been  filled  with  the 
white  robe  of  the  Servant  of  the  Servants  of  God. 
So  the  Bishop  went  in  procession — though  public 
processions  had  long  been  forbidden  in  fiery  Mar- 
seilles. The  Mayor  and  municipal  council  were  in 
waiting  in  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  exactly  opposite  the 
anchorage  of  the  Istria  in  the  Old  Port. 

"Soon  Jeanne  and  I  saw  shoot  out  the  State 
Barge,  and  at  sight  of  it  a  great  shout  went  up  from 
all  the  crowded  streets  and  the  blackened  roofs  of 
the  surrounding  houses.  He  was  going  to  land.  So 
much  seemed  certain.  Indeed  it  was  certain.  Or, 
as  in  revolution  times,  amateur  cannoniers  would 
have  swept  into  Fort  Nicholas  and  Fort  St.  Jean  and 
sunk  the  Istria  at  her  moorings  in  half-an-hour.  Oh, 
our  good  folk  of  Marseilles  are  not  to  be  trifled  with, 
I  do  assure  you.  Even  Jeanne — well,  Jeanne  and  I 
have  lived  peacefully  together  for  a  dozen  years,  she 
with  her  crocheting,  I  with  my  books.  But,  I  give 
you  my  word  of  honour,  it  was  all  I  could  do  to  re- 
strain Jeanna  She  wanted  to  be  down  there  among 
the  others — aye,  even  though  I  offered  to  read  her 
the  proofs  of  my  next  article  on  the  'Latent  Chris- 


THE  LANDING  AT  MARSEILLES        147 

tianity  of  Voltaire/  to  be  delivered  before  the  learned 
comrades  of  the  'Institute  of  the  Bouches-du- 
Rhone!'  The  woman  had  grown  frantic.  But  I 
soothed  her  as  best  I  could — by  locking  away  her 
hats  and  gowns  in  the  dark  closet  where  I  develop 
my  antiquarian  photographs. 

"At  the  same  time  I  got  hold  of  Jeanne's  opera- 
glasses,  which  worked  very  well  when  secured  with 
string  at  the  joints,  and  watched  the  Mayor's  barge 
being  parleyed  with  by  the  officers  of  the  Istria.  But 
here  they  could  not  well  refuse  to  admit  the  port 
officials — together  with  the  Mayor,  the  Prefect,  and 
the  Bishop.  It  was  a  curious  sight.  The  British 
holding  themselves  stiff  all  of  a  piece,  the  little  group 
of  visitors  who  waited,  each  with  heads  bowed  and 
bared. 

"Then  the  White  Pope  came  suddenly.  I  could 
see  all  falling  away  from  him,  so  that  on  the  deck 
of  the  great  ship  a  little  circle  was  left  perfectly- 
clear.  He  raised  his  hand,  and  in  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye  all,  save  the  British  officers,  were  on  their  knees, 
republican  mayor  and  red  revolutionary  councilman, 
as  low  as  white-haired  bishop  and  tonsured  priest. 
On  the  quays  and  streets  the  people  who  were  not 
packed  so  close  that  they  could  not  move  hand  or 
foot  threw  themselves  on  the  roadways.  They  could 
see  nothing — ^hear  nothing — know  nothing,  as  I 
count  knowledge.  But  nevertheless  a  wave  passed 
over — something  that  the  priests  would  call  the 
Breathing  of  the  Spirit.  Also,  they  were  all  French- 
men, and — well,  when  we  are  young,  you  know — we 


148       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

all  have  the  same  training,  and  we  all  die  provided 
with  the  sacraments — all,  that  is,  or  almost  all.  By 
my  side  Jeanne  was  weeping  softly,  clinging  to  the 
iron  railing  of  the  balcony,  and — yes,  muttering 
prayers,  though  I  had  long  pointed  out  to  her  the 
folly  of  expecting  anything  to  come  of  that. 

"And  then,  standing  up,  Jeanne  affirms  that  I 
too  cheered.  For  we  could  see  the  White  Pope  de- 
scending the  gangway  of  the  I  stria,  and  stepping 
into  the  barge,  the  Bishop's  white  head  on  one  side, 
and  the  Mayor's  bristling  black  poll  on  the  other. 

"Then  went  up  a  cry  such  as  the  'calanque'  had 
never  heard  since  the  first  Phoenician  galley  poked 
an  inquiring  nose  round  La  Ciotat,  and  the  crew 
saw  the  Vieux  Port  lying  limpid  and  blue  behind 
its  islands. 

"  'The  White  Pope  has  come  to  Marseilles!' 

"Jeanne  was  crying,  and  I,  who  ought  to  have 
known  better,  was  shouting  myself  hoarse. 

"  'The  White  Pope  has  come!  He  will  speak  to 
us.    He  wiU  teach  us!    The  White  Pope— the  White 

Pope!' 

"And,  as  it  came  up  to  Jeanne  and  me  through  our 
balcony  bars,  the  voice  of  the  multitude  below  was 
as  the  voice  of  many  waters!" 


CHAPTER  XVII:  THE  GOSPEL  FOR  FRANCE 

"Then,  as  if  there  had  been  no  five  flights  of 
stairs  to  descend,  no  great  crowd  to  fend  one's  way 
through,  I  found  myself  away  out  on  the  Quay  of 
the  Fraternity,  Jeanne  under  my  arm,  and  the  barge 
with  the  White  Pope,  the  Bishop,  and  the  Mayor 
getting  ready  to  come  to  land. 

"How  and  why  I  was  such  a  fool,  I  knew  not  then, 
and  probably  shall  never  know.  That  strange  wave 
which  sweeps  over  men  and  women  crowded  to- 
gether, and  is  the  nearest  thing  to  an  Exterior  God 
manifesting  Himself  miraculously  that  can  be  seen 
and  measured  and  photographed — well,  perhaps  it 
was  that.  Perhaps  a  sudden  mysterious  lunacy,  fall- 
ing as  a  tile  falls  from  a  roof!  At  any  rate  there  was 
I,  Achille  Merlou,  Member  of  the  Institute  (of 
Provence)  tearing  along  as  best  I  could,  and  with 
many  clouts  and  batterings  arriving  in  the  place 
where  was  the  chief  danger — and  the  White  Pope. 

"Our  house  was  not  far  from  the  landing-place. 

* 

We  had  chosen  it  because  of  that.  For  when  I 
worked  Jeanne  could  sit  out  on  the  balcony  with 
her  knitting,  and  watch  from  on  high  the  hither- 
and-thither  of  the  crowded  quays  like  the  skirmish- 
ing of  a  distracted  ant-hill. 

"So  thus  I  saw  the  coming  of  the  White  Pope  to 

149 


150       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

Marseilles.  I  heard  shouts  of  welcome.  I  kneeled 
on  the  quay,  with  Jeanne  beside  me  openly  telling 
the  beads  which  I  had  thought  to  be  destroyed  long 
ago,  when  I  first  explained  to  Jeanne  the  folly  of 
the  old  ways.  She  said  then  that  she  agreed  with 
me.  But  there  the  beads  were  to  belie  her,  and 
from  what  I  found  out  afterwards,  I  am  convinced 
that  slie  continued  to  say  her  prayers  every  night. 
She  might  just  as  well  have  told  me.  She  was  my 
Jeanne,  and  I  would  have  forgiven  her  even  that. 

"I  saw  Him  first,  as  a  tall  man  standing  up  in  the 
stem  of  a  boat.  He  was  dressed  in  a  long  white 
soutane — not  as  if  made  of  linen,  but  rather  like  the 
fine  wool  of  my  own  country  of  Roussillon,  near  by 
Prades,  where,  as  a  boy,  I  used  to  lead  the  sheep 
high  up  on  the  flanks  of  Canigou. 

"There  were  other  men  standing  about  him,  be- 
sides the  Mayor  and  our  Bishop,  whom  of  course  I 
knew  from  their  coming  to  the  Museum  on  speech 
days.  What  with  the  proximity  of  our  house  and 
my  elbowing  to  save  Jeanne,  it  came  about  that  we 
were  so  near  the  quay-side  that  I  could  hear  them 
entreating  him  to  speak  to  the  people  at  the  new 
Cathedral. 

"  'Make  the  pulpit  sacred,'  the  Bishop  was  say- 
ing, 'the  organist  is  in  place,  the  choristers  ready. 
If  it  is  not  the  will  of  the  Sovereign  Pontiff  to  hon- 
our us  by  celebrating  Mass,  I  will  do  that  myself! 
You  will  find,  Most  Holy  Father,  that  the  Galilean 
church  has  lost  many  of  its  ultramontane  preju- 
dices.   You  have  come  to  a  new  world  of  faith  and 


THE  GOSPEL  FOR  FRANCE  151 

power — to  a  Church  free  of  all  bonds  of  state,  a 
phoenix  arisen  out  of  her  own  recent. ashes!' 

"So  it  was.  The  Bishop,  mixing  his  speech  with 
fragments  of  his  old  sermons,  held  for  the  interior 
of  the  building.  The  Mayor  reclaimed  the  spacious 
exterior  platform.  But  the  White  Pope  stretched 
his  hand  out  towards  the  bare  bleached  slopes  of  the 
hill  on  which  stands  Sainte  Marie  de  la  Garde. 

"  'There,  on  the  hillside  yonder,  and  not  else- 
where, will  I  speak  to  the  people!' 

****** 

"He  spoke  in  French,  clearly,  but  with  a  curious 
timbre  as  of  a  smitten  bell  when  the  sound  is  dying 
away.  Indeed  I  was  informed  by  one  of  his  fol- 
lowers, a  man  from  that  northern  part  of  England 
called  Scotland  (who  might  with  application  have 
become  a  learned  man),  that  he  spoke  all  languages 
with  the  self-same  resonance  of  accent.  Luckily  for 
that  which  was  yet  to  come,  the  little  railway  called 
^Ficelle'  or  the  String,  running  up  the  steep  sides  of 
the  hill,  was  still  in  working  order.  The  soldiers  of 
the  'Blue  Berri'  closed  about  the  tiny  station,  and 
in  a  little  while  the  White  Pope  was  transmitted  to 
the  summit,  before  the  folk  had  the  least  notion 
what  was  awaiting  them.  The  conductor,  a  fervent 
adherent  of  our  liberal  reunions,  and  of  the  confer- 
ences which  I  gave  upon  advanced  subjects,  helped 
Jeanne  and  myself  into  his  compartment,  which  he 
shut  in  the  inside  by  a  strong  bar. 

"Presently  we  were  at  the  summit,  near  to  the 
white  church  all  hedgehogged  about  with  pepper- 


152       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

pot  structures.  I  could  see  the  movement  beneath. 
At  first  the  people  thought  they  had  been  outwitted. 
Then  they  came  pouring  upward  through  the  lanes 
and  alleys.  I  could  see  the  broad  Quay  of  the  Fra- 
ternity clearing  as  if  by  magic.  The  people  who 
crowded  it  had  wholly  disappeared. 

"But  a  confused  noise,  like  the  roaring  of  an  ap- 
proaching flood  from  a  broken  dam,  revealed  the 
secret.  Hardly  had  the  followers  of  the  White  Pope 
chosen  a  suitable  spot  of  ground  and  formed  the 
scanty  escort  about  him — such  of  the  popular  Alpine 
Chasseurs  as  had  managed  to  leap  into  the  little 
line  of  cars  for  the  ascent — when  the  head  of  the 
first  column  debouched  out  of  the  steep  Street  of 
St.  Remy. 

"From  all  sides  they  came,  men,  women,  and 
children.  Soon  the  grey,  bleached,  baked,  scoured 
slopes  of  the  Hill  of  the  Garde,  threshed  for  one 
hundred  and  twenty  days  in  every  year  by  the  re- 
morseless 'mistral,'  were  dotted  with  hurrying  fig- 
ures. Then  the  ground  blackened.  The  hoarse  cries 
we  had  heard  sank  into  a  murmur — no  more  than 
you  hear  when  the  valley  wind  soughs  among  the 
standing  com.  For  in  a  moment  the  Bishop  and 
the  Mayor  were  no  more  than  the  commonest  there. 
Even  the  troops  put  away  their  bayonets,  and  the 
oflScers  sheathed  their  useless  swords.  Jeanne's  beads 
disappeared,  and  my  only  hope  was  that  he  would 
soon  begin. 

"But  it  seemed  a  long  time  before  he  had  them 
settled  in  a  vast  three-quarter  circle  on  that  short 


THE  GOSPEL  FOR  FRANCE  153 

fell  of  thyme  and  romarin,  with  the  crumbly  lime- 
stone rock  peeping  through  everywhere. 

''He  motioned  with  his  hand.  The  people  ar- 
ranged themselves  as  best  they  could,  those  who  had 
come  first  being  nearer,  those  who  came  later,  farther 
off.  With  the  least  swerve  of  his  arm  he  swayed 
them.  Then  a  gesture  of  his  hand,  light  as  the  dip 
of  a  butterfly's  wing  over  a  garden  of  flowers,  and 
they  were  seated.  For  me,  I  found  myself  on  a 
tuft  of  juniper,  my  arm  about  Jeanne,  to  keep  her 
from  being  crushed  in  the  press. 

"But  really  there  was  very  little  danger  out  on 
the  wide  hill  and  under  the  gaze  of  tliose  mild  eyes 
which  saw  everything,  and  controlled  everything  by 
the  wave  of  that  arm,  which  the  folk  obeyed  as  steel 
filings  follow  a  magnet. 

"So  it  was  that  all  the  people  heard  him,  and  for 
once  in  that  strange  career  there  was  peace  and 
obedience  about  him.  The  reporters  from  the  rival 
local  journals,  the  Petit  Marseillais  and  the  Petit 
Provengal  had  each  brought  relays  of  pigeons.  As 
the  White  Pope  proceeded  with  his  discourse  these 
were  despatched  one  after  the  other.  And  while  he 
was  yet  speaking,  gamins  on  the  outer  ring  to  which 
his  voice  came  but  fitfully  were  already  selling  the 
first  two  columns  of  the  speech.  Such  was  wanting 
on  the  smooth  cone  of  Tabor,  and  Matthew  the  Tax- 
gatherer  had  to  write  out  his  reminiscences  as  best 
he  might. 

"Indeed  it  was  the  first  time  that  the  resources  of 
civilisation  had  fronted  the  White  Pope.    I  need  not 


154       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

repeat  all  that  has  been  better  reported  elsewhere. 
It  remains  for  me  to  tell  what  I  saw  and  felt  about 
me,  knowing  the  people  of  Marseilles  as  I  do. 

"First  I  must  speak  of  his  wonderful  voice.  After 
the  silence  spread  itself  over  the  empty  city  below, 
and  the  multitude  had  ceased  to  clatter  up  the  moun- 
tain side,  it  is  told  that  many  sick  and  infirm,  who 
had  crawled  to  their  windows,  caught  whole  sen- 
tences— nay,  by  some  curiosity  of  accoustics,  heard 
better  than  many  who  were  on  the  Hill  of  the  Garde 
itself,  even  under  the  lighthouse  tower  of  the  church. 

"The  Bishop  stood  quite  near  me.  To  begin  with, 
there  was  a  bland  smile  on  his  face.  A  good,  supple, 
wary  man,  is  our  Bishop,  strong  in  religion,  stronger 
in  politics.  And  sometimes,  a  little  too  manifestly 
confounding  the  two. 

"He  hoped,  I  doubt  it  not,  for  such  a  pronounce- 
ment as  would  give  back  to  the  Hierarchy  of  Mas- 
silia  its  ancient  splendour,  to  the  clergy  their  power 
in  things  temporal,  restore  the  beauty  of  half-for- 
gotten processionals,  make  to  be  heard  the  sound  of 
chaunting  along  the  streets,  the  silence  of  the  Host 
carried  on  high,  before  which  all  traffic  ceased  and 
all  men  kneeled,  as  the  emblem  of  sacrifice  passed 
between  the  lines  of  a  reverent  people. 

"A  beautiful  dream — better  than  many,  I  do  al- 
low! Infinitely  better  than  the  English  folly  of 
the  race-course  or  our  own  pari  mutuel — still  better 
than  the  dull  brutality  of  the  motor-car  people.  Jug- 
gernauts to  whom  are  thrown  daily  the  children  of 
our  streets  and  hamlets.    But  that  which  the  White 


THE  GOSPEL  FOR  FRANCE  155 

Pope  had  to  say  was  not  of  processionings,  nor  of 
priests  adorned  in  gold  and  purple,  nor  of  changing 
flesh  and  miraculous  wafer. 

"  1  am  the  Pope,'  he  said,  'plain  Brother  Christo- 
pher, the  monk  of  Mount  Zion,  whom,  by  no  seekmg 
of  his,  they  made  Pope.  They  did  it  in  no  ignorance. 
Yet  I  warned  them.  They  called  me  to  be  the  Rock 
on  which  their  church  was  built. 

"  'So  also  is  it  with  the  churches.  For  each  true 
man  is  the  Church  of  the  Living  God — each  man  the 
shrine  of  the  spirit  that  dwells  in  Him,  the  Son  of 
God,  who  was  the  only  perfect  Temple  of  God  upon 
the  earth.  But,  even  as  the  Christ,  we  also  are 
Temples  not  made  with  hands,  and  Who  or  What  is 
worshipped  there  depends  on  ourselves.  Even  Peter, 
after  being  called  the  Rock,  twice  gave  himself  up 
for  a  time  to  the  Prince  of  Lies!  Now  no  priest  is 
more  than  a  man.  No  setting  apart  by  ministering 
bishop  or  holy  sjmod  is  better  than  the  silent  sum- 
mons to  Nathanael  under  the  fig-tree,  or  the  yearn- 
ing which  raised  Nicodemus  wakeful  from  his  pil- 
low to  come  to  Jesus  by  night!' 

"The  preacher  raised  his  hand  and  pointed  to  the 
tall  pharos  of  the  Garde,  and  then  down  to  the  vast 
greyish-green  mosque  of  which  they  had  made  a 
cathedral. 

"  'Look  you,'  he  said,  'these  shall  no  longer  be 
things  apart,  sacred,  but  places  where  each  shall 
speak  to  his  fellows  the  best  he  hath  in  his  heart. 
And  if  there  be  nothing  there  to  speak,  let  him  be 
silent.    If  the  churches  are  left  empty,  let  them  be 


156       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

hospitals,  filled  with  the  sick  or  the  homeless.  And 
as  for  the  women  who  frequent  them  now — let  their 
worship  be  service,  and  help,  and  the  giving  up  of 
self.  Yet  mostly  I  speak  to  men.  And  it  must  be 
so.  For  even  a  man  of  sin  will  sometimes  listen  to 
the  god  that  speaks  deep  within  him.  But  the 
woman,  if  she  have  no  god,  will  make  one  of  the 
man  she  loves. 

"  'Nevertheless  though  the  cardinals  dethrone  me 
by  their  council,  there  is  come  a  new  thing  into  the 
world — a  man  has  laid  aside  the  highest  of  earth's 
offices  that  he  may  speak  as  spoke  the  Galilean. 
And  I,  who  share  Peter's  frailty  as  I  do  his  chair, 
have  at  least  laid  aside  all  fear.  I  will  be  as  the 
poor  on  your  streets,  and  if  for  the  sake  of  my  mes- 
sage none  will  give  me  food,  I  shall  hold  it  no  shame 
to  labour  with  my  hands  to  gain  it.' 

"He  looked  about  him.  Something  in  the  barren 
aspect  of  the  Hill  of  the  Garde  (as  I  suppose)  re- 
minded him  of  the  country  from  whence  he  had 
come.  For  now  all  the  world  knew  that  as  a  child 
he  had  been  found  wandering  upon  Mount  Zion, 
long  before  they  had  thought  of  making  him  a  monk. 
Then  he  resumed,  with  something  still  more  tender 
in  his  voice. 

"  'It  is  no  time  to  seek  honour  of  men.  Long 
years  ago  when  they  made  me  almoner  of  the  Con- 
vent of  the  Holy  Sepulchre,  I  was  prouder  than  I 
am  to-day.  I  have  learned  the  worth  of  things.  The 
fool  saith  in  his  heart — "There  is  no  God."  But  the 
Wise  knows  that  in  his  own  heart  there  is  God. 


THE  GOSPEL  FOR  FRANCE  157 

When  I  wag  young  they  told  me  of  one  Mary,  the 
wife  of  Joseph,  a  carpenter  in  a  little  hill  village 
where  poor  people  dwell.  She  was,  as  I  understood, 
a  good  woman,  brave,  loving,  gentle — like  your 
mother  and  mine.' 

"He  turned  a  little  towards  Mary  Orloff,  who  sat 
behind  him,  devouring  him  with  her  eyes.  And  that 
backward  look  repaid  her  for  all — that  is,  had  she 
needed  to  be  repaid. 

"  'But  instead  of  bidding  me  love  this  good  mother 
and  good  housewife,  she  bade  me  worship  something 
not  a  mother,  not  even  a  woman — an  Immaculate 
Conception.  Nor  you  nor  I,  nor  our  reverend  bishop 
here,  nor  the  wisest  theologue  knows  what  that 
means.  It  is  a  mystery.  But  the  old  was  better — 
Mary,  the  mother  of  Him  in  whose  heart  God  grew 
and  increased  till  it  was  all  God — Mary,  the  house- 
wife, the  keeper  at  home — what  is  there  better  than 
that?  Then  instead  of  her  son,  the  teacher,  the 
prophet,  the  world's  wisdom,  the  mirror  of  God,  they 
held  up  a  transfixed  bleeding  heart  for  me  to  wor- 
ship. Greatly,  gi'eatly  do  ye  err,  my  brothers'  (he 
spoke  to  the  bishop  and  congregation  of  priests,  who 
kept  their  heads  down  as  if  ashamed),  'greatly  do 
ye  err.  Better  than  the  vision  of  any  mangled  heart, 
on  which  ye  have  founded  so  many  things,  is  the 
face  of  the  Man  of  Sorrows,  marred  beyond  that  of 
any  man — the  hardened  hands  from  which  the  horn 
of  twenty  years  of  axe  and  plane  and  adze  never 
passed — no,  not  even  when  they  stretched  them  wide 
apart  to  receive  the  driven  nails!' 


158       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

"Then  in  what  measure  the  bishop  and  canons  and 
great  churchmen  hung  their  heads,  the  Free  Masons, 
chieftains  of  the  Grand  Orient  and  the  red  poli- 
ticians, smiled  and  nudged  each  other.  This  was  as 
good  as  the  next  election  won  to  them.  But  they 
had  short  time  to  rejoice.  For  the  White  Pope 
turned  upon  them  sharply. 

"  'Nevertheless  though  to  teach  such  things  may 
be  weakness,  there  are  those  on  whom  rests  a  deeper 
guilt.  For  have  they  not  torn  up  faith  from  the 
land  as  men  pluck  out  weeds  and  thrown  them  on 
the  dunghill?  In  this  land  of  France,  long  called 
the  eldest  daughter  of  the  Church,  for  twenty  years 
ye  have  taught  with  care  a  hatred  of  good  and  of 
God,  at  once  bitter  and  blasting.  So  that  in  these 
latter  years  your  own  children  are  become  murderers, 
robbers,  and  shedders  of  blood.  Not  as  in  other 
countries  are  robberies  with  violence,  assassinations, 
bestial  outrages  done  by  the  veterans  of  crime,  men 
grown  grey  in  iniquity.  But  here  in  this  your 
France  it  is  the  children  who  in  mockery  rise  up 
against  you.  They  tell  me  that  more  than  half 
your  crimes  are  done  by  boys  from  fifteen  to  twenty. 
Up  to  the  time  of  his  first  communion  a  boy  is  shel- 
tered and  taught,  as  I  was,  the  mystic  fetish  of  an 
Immaculate  Conception  and  a  bleeding  Sacred 
Heart.  Then  he  is  confirmed.  He  thinks  himself  a 
man.  And  at  the  first  lycee  or  about  the  marble  of 
the  nearest  cafe  table  he  is  informed  that  all  his 
mother  has  told  him,  all  the  priest  has  taught  him, 
is  no  better  than  a  pack  of  lies.    If  he  asks  for  the 


THE  GOSPEL  FOR  FRANCE  159 

truth  his  father  shrugs  his  shoulders,  his  comrades 
jeer,  his  professors  laugh.  You  in  France  are  not 
educated  to  know  the  truth,  but  to  be  good  partizans 
of  this  one  or  the  other  political  party.  But  Chris- 
tians— ah,  I  fear  they  are  scarce  among  you,  save 
indeed  certain  good  men  and  women  by  whom  your 
nation  is  saved  as  by  fire!' 

"Then  the  professors  of  the  colleges,  and  the  Flais- 
sieristes,  and  the  Voltairians  among  the  people  raised 
an  angry  shout.  For  this  was  not  what  they  had 
come  to  hear.  And  indeed  I,  Achille  Merlou,  being 
somewhat  of  that  way  of  thinking  myself,  and  no 
great  lover  of  the  'calotte,'  was  a  little  disturbed. 
But  at  my  elbow  Jeanne  gazed  at  the  preacher  with 
streaming  eyes. 

"Then  he  came  to  his  conclusion. 

"  'Wars  should  have  taught  you,  but  they  did  not. 
Suffering  did  not  purify  you,  ye  men  of  France. 
Your  revolutions  have  been  but  the  pulling  down 
of  one  and  the  setting  up  of  another,  and  out  of 
each  has  been  born  a  tyranny  more  severe.  There 
remains  for  you  only  the  way  of  the  Son  of  Joseph. 
Ye  must  believe  as  He  believed.  Ye  must  do  as 
He  did,  and  so  the  Spirit  of  God  shall  enter  into 
your  hearts,  into  your  houses,  and  into  your  families. 
Only  thus  can  France  be  saved. 

"  'And  you,  priests  of  my  own  robe,  brethren  of 
the  one  Evangel,  your  path  hath  not  been  clean. 
The  letter  killeth.  Ye  have  made  to  yourselves 
saints  and  angels,  and  virgins,  and  lo — they  are  be- 
come fetishes,  such  as  I  have  seen  the  savages  wor- 


160       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

ship  on  far  islands  of  the  sea.  Come  out  of  her, 
Babylon  of  the  Purple  Robe!  The  State  hath  cast 
you  off.  There  is  but  one  record  of  the  Perfect 
Man.  Read  it,  and  again  read  it,  till  in  your  own 
heart  there  grows  up  a  likeness.  Then  go  forth  and 
preach.  For  me  I  shall  speak  my  message  but  a 
little  while.  But  I  shall  light  many  torches.  Look 
in  your  hearts  for  the  true  evangel. 

"  'And  then,  having  seen,  rise  up  and  follow,  leav- 
ing altar  and  incense,  speaking  as  God  gives  you 
utterance,  working  with  your  hands  if  ye  lack  bread 
for  your  mouths  and  living  the  life  of  the  Son  of 
Man.  So  alone  is  there  hope  for  this  your  land  of 
France.' " 


CHAPTER  XVIII:     WHAT  WENT  YE  OUT 

FOR  TO  SEE? 

Here  I,  Lucas  Cargill,  again  take  up  the  story.  I 
ani  indebted  to  my  friend  Merlou  of  the  ProvenQal 
Museum  for  the  report  contained  in  the  last  chapter, 
so  much  more  national  and  graphic  than  mine  could 
have  been,  of  the  reception  and  message  of  the 
White  Pope  in  Marseilles, 

For  me,  it  is  true  I  stood  beside  him,  and  saw  all 
these  things.  But  then,  how  could  I  understand  the 
topography  of  the  city,  still  less  their  local  and  na- 
tional politics,  their  envyings  and  grievings  at  the 
good  of  their  neighbour? 

Long,  however,  before  Brother  Christopher  had 
finished,  I  knew  well  enough  that  he  was  speaking 
against  a  dour  and  sullen  anger.  I  could  see  the  dis- 
appointment settle  down  on  the  waxen  faces  of  the 
priests,  their  thin  lips  pinch  themselves  tighter  as 
they  listened,  while  the  next  moment  city  magnates, 
padded  with  restaurant  fat,  grew  rubicund  with 
anger.  To  them  were  added  the  secret  prysters  of 
the  Grand  Orient,  demagogues  with  a  personal  spite 
at  God  for  having  made  anything  so  vile  as  them- 
selves, anarchists,  both  theoretical  and  practical. 
This  was  certainly  not  what  these  men  had  come 
out  to  hear. 

161 


162       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

But  as  he  said  himself,  here  and  there  in  stray 
hearts,  as  everywhere  indeed,  the  White  Pope  kin- 
dled a  fire  unquenchable — in  that  of  my  friend  Mer- 
lou  among  others.  Some  of  these  were  destined  to 
carry  the  light  far — indeed  to  transmit  it  round  the 
world,  as  in  a  procession  a  torch  is  lighted  at  his 
neighbour's  flambeau. 

But  as  the  wise  and  powerful  of  the  city  melted 
away  in  disgustful  fear,  the  ranks  of  the  commons 
were  serried  tighter  about  him.  And  to  them  he 
spoke  more  simply.  He  told  the  story  of  a  certain 
lad  on  Galilean  braefaces,  with  the  lake  lying  flat 
as  a  pancake  beneath — only  blue,  so  blue.  Then 
came  the  tale  of  how  He  would  escape  out  upon  the 
hills  where  the  lilies,  clad  like  never  a  Solomon, 
swayed  red  in  the  breezes  that  blew  down  into  the 
airy  gulf  of  Gennesaret.  He  told,  as  if  it  had  been 
his  own  remembered  life,  with  a  wondrous  moving 
power,  the  story  of  this  boy,  the  carpenter's  appren- 
tice, the  child  thinker  of  vast,  vague,  sweet  thoughts, 
from  which  He  would  awake  to  run  races  with  His 
comrades,  or  carry  on  His  shoulder  the  paunch  of 
rude  tools  for  His  father's  next  job  down  in  the 
house  by  the  synagogue. 

As  he  spoke  I  could  see  the  heads  bent  inward, 
and  hear  the  sighing  of  the  listening  women,  whose 
eyes  never  once  left  the  face  of  the  preacher.  Thd 
men,  however,  had  rather  a  poor  uneasy  look,  as 
if  their  own  practice  and  experience  squared  but 
imperfectly  with  this  exemplar.  As  was  indeed,  I 
do  confess  it,  mine  own  case. 


WHAT  WENT  YE  OUT  FOR  TO  SEE?     163 

He  went  on,  waving  his  hands  to  embrace  the 
universe. 

"Some  Power  to  us  unknown  made  throb  the 
barren  earth  with  hfe,  lighted  the  stars  and  set  the 
sun  to  burn.  But  save  in  the  life  of  the  young  man 
Jesus,  we  cannot  trace  Him,  cannot  say  This  is  He!' 
— Except,  again  I  bid  you  remark  it,  by  the  lamp  He 
has  lighted  in  your  own  hearts.  Jesus  of  Galilee 
shows  what  Man  may  be.  What  Man  is,  you  your- 
selves do  know. 

"Hath  God  spoken?  In  your  hearts,  yes.  In  mine, 
yes.  We  are  .  .  .  what  we  are!  But  we  may  be 
Christs.  I,  for  one,  mean  to  try.  But  that  Upward- 
seeking  Soul  of  man  is  our  sole  link  with  the  World- 
Maker,  the  Lord  of  a  Myriad  Stars. 

"Once  they  called  him  Zeus  and  Jupiter.  They 
wrote  songs  to  his  earthquakes,  to  his  thunderbolts, 
and  the  morning  stars  seemed  to  sing  them  together. 
But  for  you  and  me,  God  is  just  the  Still  Small  Voice 
within  us  which,  among  other  things,  owns  Jesus  for 
the  perfect  man  and  proclaims  that  it  is  in  our  power 
to  be  like  Him. 

"Temples,  cathedrals,  basilicas,  parish  churches, 
meeting-houses — they  are  but  rags  flaunted  to  cover 
the  nakedness  of  the  land.  They  shall  pass  away, 
and  be  no  more.  Then  those  who  come  after  the 
times  of  the  Great  Silence  shall  be  themselves  the 
sole  Temples  of  the  Living  God.  Till  then  we  follow 
after.  The  boy  who  went  to  Jerusalem  at  the  feast 
and  spoke  with  the  elders,  who  went  again  the  last 
time,  and  was  hanged  on  the  Tree — He  goes  before. 


164       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

And  Christopher  the  Pope,  and  every  humble  serene 

soul,  must  follow.     For  surely  the  outward  letter 

killeth,  but  the  spirit  that  is  within  maketh  alive." 

And  this  was  the  end  of  his  discourse. 
♦        ♦♦•♦• 

I  do  not  know  that  many  understood.  I  should 
be  much  surprised  if  they  had.  But  it  was  water- 
clear  to  some,  and  they  neither  the  wisest  nor  the 
best.  To  the  women  specially,  this  man  who  kept 
himself  apart  from  them  all,  companying  solely  with 
men,  most  strongly  appealed.  When  he  moved  to 
depart  down  the  hill  they  fell  on  their  knees,  jostling 
each  other  to  kiss  the  marks  where  his  feet  had 
stood  in  the  white  and  trodden  limestone  dust  of  the 
Hill  of  the  Garde. 

About  the  preacher  himself — it  needed  a  blue-bon- 
neted company  of  the  Chasseurs  Alpines  to  keep  the 
populace  good-humouredly  at  arm's  length.  But 
now  we  moved  through  no  shouting  throng  of 
learned  and  dignified.  The  White  Pope  had  disap- 
pointed his  hearers.  There  was  no  bishop,  nor  body- 
guard of  political  clergy,  hot  upon  the  good  times  of 
the  temporalities. 

The  deputies  of  the  Extreme  Left,  numerous  in 
the  vicinity,  went  their  way  equally  ill-pleased,  cry- 
ing back  over  their  shoulders,  "He  is  but  a  priest 
like  the  rest  of  them ! "  For  to  these  men,  hungry  for 
political  flesh-pots,  his  words  of  peace  and  love  and 
the  Inner  Light  were  foolishness,  the  mere  babble^ 
ment  of  a  brook  over  its  pebbles 


WHAT  WENT  YE  OUT  FOR  TO  SEE?     165 

Once  more  we  were  on  board  an  English  boat.  On 
an  instant  the  iron  grip  of  Britain's  sea  discipUne 
gripped  us  round.  "Never  was  I  gladder  to  see  the 
crimson  blink  of  the  mercantile  Jack  over  the  stern 
of  the  Istria.  We  were  safe  now,  and  first  of  all  I 
got  the  White  Pope  to  his  cabin.  His  mother  was 
without  asking  if  there  was  aught  that  could  be  done 
for  him — some  nourishment — a  little  wine? 

"Nothing,  I  thank  you,  Mary  Orloff,"  he  said,  "I 
have  need  of  nothing — save  a  little  peace  in  which 
to  confer  with  my  spirit." 

And  from  this  saying,  there  were  foolish  folk  who 
drew  the  inference  that  the  White  Pope  had  a  fa- 
miliar spirit  or  devil.  These  southern  peoples  are 
willing  to  receive  anything,  to  believe  anything — ex- 
cept, mayhap,  the  truth. 

It  was  to  the  chorus  of  mingled  shouts  and  hoot- 
ings  that  the  Istria  drove  slowly  out  of  the  port  of 
Marseilles.  For  me  I  had  expected  nothing  so  sud- 
den as  the  overturn  of  our  hopes  in  France.  But 
when  the  White  Pope  sent  for  me  to  question  me 
about  England,  there  was  nothing  in  his  attitude  of 
smiling  lassitude  to  suggest  that  he  had  not  expected 
his  reception  from  the  first. 

"I  piped  to  them  and  they  have  not  danced,"  he 
said,  resuming  his  habitual  gravity,  "that  is  all.  I 
choose  to  travel  the  world  as  a  poor  man,  though  I 
am  veritable  Pope  of  Rome,  and  by  their  own  mak- 
ing. Is  it  strange  then,  that  those  who,  in  the  Vati- 
can, kissed  my  raiment's  hem,  should  now  cast  stones 
and  dust  at  me?" 


166       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

And  indeed  on  the  way  down  the  Cannabiere,  on 
the  slopes  of  the  Hill  of  the  Garde,  there  had  been 
some  stone-throwing,  for  ammunition  was  plentiful 
enough.  And  other  things  more  dangerous  would 
have  followed  but  for  the  grooved  bayonets  of  the 
Chasseurs  Alpines. 

Then  the  White  Pope  became  curious  about  Eng- 
land. He  had  heard  of  the  universal  liberty  there. 
He  knew  that,  though  the  churches  were  infinitely 
split  and  divided,  no  man  was  allowed  to  interfere 
with  the  opinions  of  another,  in  politics  as  in  re- 
ligion. It  must  be  a  most  strange  country,  he 
thought. 

I  warned  him  that  there  were  those  in  England 
who  would  endeavour  to  make  a  show  of  him,  as 
well  as  an  advertisement  for  themselves,  and  that  he 
had  need  of  rest.  I  was  no  rich  man,  I  told  him,  but 
I  had  a  home  in  Scotland  and  certain  sums  of  money 
to  meet  all  the  needful  expenses.  He  scarcely 
thanked  me.  He  was  already  immersed  in  the  fu- 
ture, and  I  think,  did  not  fully  take  in  what  I  was 
saying.  There  was  a  kind  of  fatalism  about  him. 
His  path  seemed  marked  out  for  him. 

"The  labourer  is  worthy  of  his  hire,"  he  said  at 
last.  "I  shall  speak  to  the  people — to  all  peoples. 
They  will  listen  to  me.  As  one  Christian  to  his 
brothers,  so  will  I  speak  to  them!" 

It  was  difficult  for  one  of  my  nation  to  reveal  all 
the  truth  to  such  a  man — how  that  for  the  most  part 
we  were  a  people  wholly  given  over  to  the  making 
of   money,   with   little   time   for   aught   else — our 


WHAT  WENT  YE  OUT  FOR  TO  SEE?   167 

churches  busy  pin-pricking  each  other  for  pleasure, 
each  sect  measuring  his  neighbour's  anise  and  mint 
and  cummin,  but  so  far  as  they  themselves  were  con- 
cerned taking  little  care  of  the  weightier  matters  of 
the  law.  I  found  he  knew  little  about  the  Protestant 
churches,  except  as  to  their  devotion  to  learning  and 
the  study  of  the  Bible,  for  he  had  read  many  of 
their  books,  English  and  German.  He  was  insatiably 
curious  as  to  their  goveniment — how  a  King  could 
be  the  head  of  the  Anglican  church,  how  the  legisla- 
ture retained  this  dogma  and  restrained  that  cere- 
mony— passing  with  scarce  a  pause  from  sanitation 
and  the  price  of  railway  tickets  to  the  State  regula- 
tion of  the  Church  of  Christ.  This  astonished  hinx 
much,  as  indeed  it  well  might. 

"The  old  was  better!"  he  murmured,  "this  too 
must  end!" 

Still  more  astonished  was  he  to  hear  that  in  Eng- 
land and  Scotland  more  than  half  of  all  church-going 
people  received  no  money  from  the  State,  but  with 
free-will  offerings  had  built  their  own  churches  or 
chapels,  and  provided  for  their  own  clergy.  To  this 
he  returned  again  and  again. 

"Are  these  the  poor,  the  unsuccessful,  the  dying 
churches?"  he  asked. 

"On  the  contrary,"  I  made  answer,  "though  many 
are  poor  in  the  goods  of  this  world,  they  are  gener- 
ally, as  I  have  seen  them,  in  good  works  the  richest 
and  the  most  successful." 

"It  is  true,"  he  said,  triumphantly,  "the  ages  have 
proved  it.     The  Man  of  Galilee,  who  founded  all 


168       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

these  societies,  had  scarce  twelve  pence  wherewith 
to  pay  his  head-money.  If  His  servants  would  be 
rich,  let  them  labour.  Otherwise  they  settle  like 
bees  on  the  sugar-saucers  of  the  State,  and  lay  up  no 
good  fiower-honey.  I  have  seen  it.  Even  I  have  felt 
it.  Man  is  by  nature  idle,  and  the  spur  must  enter 
into  his  flesh  even  to  make  him  preach  the  Gospel 
with  fidelity." 


CHAPTER  XIX:    AVATAR 

Meanwhile  the  noise  of  him  had  gone  through 
all  the  world.  The  chief  part  of  Europe  broke  into 
a  flame — of  anger  mostly  in  priest-ridden  countries, 
of  mingled  hope  and  fear  in  the  others.  Even  Asia, 
ancient  mother  of  mysteries,  patiently  expected  yet 
another  Avatar — perhaps  the  last  of  all.  From 
America  the  news  came  of  enormous  camp-meetings 
extending  from  Ocean  Grove  to  Chesapeake  Bay, 
and  fringing  with  white  tent  cities  the  great  Lauren- 
tian  lakes  to  the  North.  It  was  expected  (so  said 
the  Marconi  receiver)  that  out  of  all  this  excitement 
a  new  religion  would  be  born,  the  worship  of  the 
"White  Pope."  It  was  added  that  a  certain  famous 
entrepreneur  had  chartered  the  fastest  vessel  in  the 
port  of  New  York,  and  was  even  now  speeding  across 
the  Atlantic  to  intercept  the  White  Pope  with  the 
offer  of  60,000  dollars  a  week  if  he  would  preach 
the  new  Gospel  in  every  city  in  the  Union.  Halls 
(it  seemed)  were  already  taken.  Great  circus-build- 
ings were  being  run  up  and  the  best  brass-bands  en- 
gaged months  beforehand.  The  whole  thing  was  to 
be  "monstre."  Nevertheless  over  there  were  many 
sad  hearts,  especially  among  those  who  remembered 
Emerson,  and  Longfellow,  and  John  Greenleaf  Whit- 
tier — yes,  even  old  Walt,  dying  beautifully  in  his 

169 


170       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

Camden  garret.  The  days  of  the  Quietists  had 
passed  away.  But  Fritz  Trumpman,  the  entrepre- 
neur in  question,  though  a  Jew  by  birth,  discerned 
in  the  White  Pope  the  biggest  draw  America  had 
ever  seen — that  is,  properly  worked,  as  he  meant  to 
work  it.  Barnum  and  Jenny  Lind  would  not  be  in 
it!  He,  Fritz  Trumpman,  would  show  the  boys  how 
a  monumental  "scoop"  ought  to  be  put  through. 
He  had  already  thoughts  of  "donating"  platform 
tickets  to  a  thousand  big  preachers,  five  hundred 
railroad  presidents,  and  ten  thousand  influential 
Knights  of  Labour,  while  religious  organisations  in- 
numerable raffled  and  auctioned  for  tlie  floor  places. 
The  galleries  would  be  reserved  for  Young  Men's 
and  Women's  Christian  Associations.  Massed  bands 
would  be  hidden  away  behind  gigantic  screens — the 
choir  accommodated  under  the  platform.  He  even 
thought  of  importing  a  great  soprano  opera-singer 
from  Europe  merely  for  the  solos.  There  was  noth- 
ing mean  about  Fritz  Trumpman.  When  he  had 
hold  of  a  big  thing,  he  knew  it,  and  in  Fritz's  good 
time  the  world  was  certain  to  know  of  it  too.  That 
was  what  the  world  was  for.  It  was  Fritz  Trump- 
man's  oyster,  and  never  before  he  had  such  a  lever 
to  open  it  with  as  this  White  Pope  promised  to  be. 
Yes,  the  world  was  moving — the  whole  world. 
Civilisation  swayed.  The  dead  lands  came  alive.  In 
China  they  said  that  Confucius  himself  had  come 
again,  and  that  the  White  Pope  had  a  yellow  skin 
under  his  capes.  Japan  looked  westward  with  hope, 
from  behind  her  homebuilt  battleships,  and  bristling 


AVATAR  171 

victorious  bayonets.  Profoundly  and  materialisti- 
cally sceptical,  she  yet  knew  the  power  of  a  Man. 
She  herself  had  made  a  god  of  one  and  for  half  a 
century  the  Mikado-worship  had  served  her  very 
well.  In  a  few  days  this  new  Awakener  of  Souls 
would  be  safe  within  the  inviolable  shelter  of  Island 
England,  her  ally. 

But  there  were  other  rulers  not  so  well  satisfied. 
Russia  was  in  the  flames  of  rebellion  from  Sevasto- 
pol to  the  White  Sea.  The  head  of  the  Greek  church 
was  pent  up  in  Cronstadt,  trembling  for  the  fidelity 
of  his  last  batch  of  artillerymen.  His  Cossacks  of 
the  Don  had  been  tracked  and  shot  down  wherever 
found,  like  so  many  beasts  of  prey.  The  huge  land 
was  a  smoking  blood-drenched  ruin.  For  the  peas- 
ants, at  last  abjuring  their  Little  Father,  the  White 
Czar,  cried  aloud  for  a  greater  Father,  even  the 
White  Pope. 

England,  they  now  say,  was  calm,  very  calm.  Yet 
the  Times  had  many  leaders,  each  day  growing  more 
informatively  placid  and  inconclusive.  The  Daily 
Courier  as  usual  invented  head-lines,  but  little  else. 
Indeed  no  real  news  was  to  be  had,  save  perhaps 
from  the  page  of  the  Times  devoted  to  foreign  cor- 
respondence. There  alone  one  might  learn  some- 
thing as  to  how  the  world  wagged.  But  the  man  on 
the  street  was  slow  to  catch  fire. 

"This  'ere  W'ite  Pope— I  don't  think  much  o' 
him,"  he  said,  "givin'  up  his  job  like  that,  when  so 
many  'ereabouts  is  out  o'  work!" 

"Oh,  they'll  stop  'im  at  Dover  right  enough,"  said 


172        THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

his  comrade,  "Aliens'  bill,  you  know.  'Ee's  got  to 
show  his  means  o'  livelihood — that'll  bother  'im!" 

"Likely!"  said  the  first,  scornfully,  "ain't  he  a 
preacher?  He'll  send  round  the  hat  there  an'  then, 
and  make  them  Customs  House  fellers  stump  up  too 
on  the  spot — that's  what  he'll  do!  He's  a  great  jaw- 
wagger!" 

And  upon  the  Street  called  Fleet  the  two  men  sep- 
arated under  cover  of  the  jest. 

But  down  betwixt  Algeciras  and  Cape  Trafalgar 
the  Istria  ran  into  an  Atlantic  fog-bank.  Not  puffy, 
woolly  flox  like  teased  cotton-wool,  but  equal,  grey, 
thin,  scoury  stuff — yet  somehow  obscuring  the  vision 
in  a  very  remarkable  degree. 

"More  like  Regent  Street  on  a  thick  morning  than 
honest  North  Atlantic!"  said^the  First  to  the  Second 
Lieutenant.  Both  sighed.  They  wished  they  were 
already  there. 

It  was  broad  daylight,  and  they  could  hardly  see 
the  length  of  the  R.M.S.  Istria.  The  Captain  was 
below  busy  with  his  collection  of  stamps.  During 
the  voyage  he  had  got  a  lot  of  new  Philippines  with 
coloured  surcharges.  He  knew  that  more  than  half 
were  forgeries.  And  he  was  trying,  with  the  help  of 
a  dim-coloured  American  monograph  of  facsimiles, 
to  find  out  which  was  which. 

Fog-banks  deaden  sound  curiously — especially  on 
the  North  Atlantic.  The  officers  on  watch  leaned 
four  elbows  on  the  rail  and  set  two  clean-shaven,  al- 
most naval  chins  in  two  pairs  of  hands.  The  Second 
was  listening  intently.    Mr.  Jackson  with  less  keen 


AVATAR  173 

hearing  began  to  talk  about  two  girls,  sisters,  he  had 
known  in  Southampton  a  while  ago.  He  wondered 
if  they  were  there  still.    The  father  had 

"Hus-s-shr  said  Number  Two,  a  lad  from  Leith, 
MacVeagh  by  name,  clean  against  all  rules  of  the 
service.    Then  he  qualified  the  interjection. 

"Don't  you  hear  something?"  he  whispered. 

"No,  I  don't!"  said  Number  One,  curtly.  Mr. 
Jackson  hated  to  be  interrupted  in  a  story,  especially 
in  a  reminiscence  of  that  sort  addressed  to  a  subordi- 
nate. 

"There!"  said  Number  Two  taking  the  first  lieu- 
tenant by  the  arm. 

"Our  own  echo  on  the  cloud-banks — I've  heard  of 
such  things!"  said  Number  One  crossly.  His  mind 
was  on  the  small  brick  house  up  near  the  old  West 
Station.  He  had  not  been  in  Southampton  for  sev- 
eral years,  and  did  not  know  that  all  that  district  had 
been  pulled  down  and  again  built  over  with  villa 
residences.  Only  the  foreshore  remained  as  muddy 
as  ever.  At  any  rate  it  made  no  difference  to  his 
subordinate's  "infernal  cheek"  in  not  wanting  to  lis- 
ten to  his  story. 

But  a  dull  trampling  sound  forced  itself  on  his  un- 
willing ear.  MacVeagh  was  right.  He  felt  mechan- 
ically for  his  marine  glasses. 

"Sounds  like  an  old  paddle-boat,"  he  grumbled, 
"well,  that  can't  hurt  us!" 

Then  he  laughed. 

"You  see,"  he  went  on,  "it  was  in  Christchurch 
Road  near  the  foot  that  I  first  met  her " 


174       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

'That's  no  paddle-boat/'  interrupted  Number 
Two,  again,  "it's  something  immense — armoured, 
packed  tight  with  engines,  triple-expansion  and  the 
new  Bellevilles!  I  know  that  sound — let  go  the 
syren  or  she  will  cut  us  in  two  like  a  blessed  birthday 
cake  with  pink  sugar  on  the  top!" 

But  the  first  oflScer  remained  unconvinced,  having 
been  crossed  in  his  narration. 

"Big  Cruiser  you  say? — Cruiser  be  blowed! 
Who'd  have  a  cruiser  down  here  except  us?  And 
I  bet  Jack  Admiralty  would  be  asking  nasty  ques- 
tions at  the  end  of  a  wire  as  soon  as  they  got  to  Gib, 
if  they  drove  her  like  that!  Spain  has  got  none. 
French  ones  keep  to  the  ports  and — my  God — what's 
thatr 


CHAPTER  XX:     AN  ACT  OF  WAR 

Out  of  the  fleecy  mist  that  thinned  before  them^ 
right  across  their  path,  drave  the  spectre  of  a  big 
warship,  half-cruiser,  half  overgrown  destroyer.  She 
was  painted  a  vague  impermanent  white — not 
creamy  white  but  a  dead  dull  corpse-like  pallor, — 
whitewash  mixed  with  furnace-ash,  the  Second  de- 
fined it. 

"Ro-o-o-o — toot!"  went  the  Istria's  syren  in  a 
roaring  swirl  of  sound.  And  the  English  mail-boat 
kept  her  way.  She  was  doing  her  nineteen  knots 
very  comfortably  and  thought  well  of  herself.  But 
the  corpse-white  cruiser  circled  about  her  easily  as  a 
bird  round  a  row-boat,  now  disappearing  in  the  fog. 
now  reappearing.  Silent,  dangerous-looking  the 
while,  evidently  holding  the  Istria  in  observation. 

"Can  you  make  her  out — what  does  she  want,  any- 
way?" said  the  Captain  coming  up  the  ladder  three 
steps  at  a  time,  in  spite  of  a  doubtful  heart  and  a 
certain  tear  in  a  genuine  'two  pesos  blue'  war  stamp 
of  1897  (Philippine  Islands). 

"No,  sir,  I  can't,"  said  Number  One,  "she  has  a 
big  gun  forward  all  cleared — a  twelve-inch,  I  should 
say,  or  may  be  thirteen ! " 

"Can  you  see  anything,  Mr.  MacVeagh?"  he  spoke 
to  the  Leithwater  second  mate. 

175 


176       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

"She's  all  clam- jammed  up  with  tricks,"  quoth  the 
Scot,  "I'll  wager  she  belongs  to  one  of  the  new  navies, 
American  or  Italian — Italian  for  choice.  They've 
got  a  man  who  is  death  on  inventing  new  types." 

"Boom!"  The  big  gun  forward  of  their  pursuer 
spoke  with  a  deafening  roar,  and  a  second  before  (as 
it  seemed)  a  huge  surge  of  white  broken  water, 
erected  itself  column-wise  out  of  the  sea,  right  in  the 
path  of  the  Istria.  "As  high  as  a  house"  was  the 
rather  insufficient  explanation  of  the  second  in  com- 
mand, the  lad  who  had  passed  his  exams,  at  Leith. 

"That's  a  signal  to  heave  to — good  in  all  codes 
and  languages!"  said  the  First  Mate,  at  last  forget- 
ting Southampton  and  the  foot  of  the  Christchurch 
Road. 

"Heave  to  be  hanged — A  British  mail  steamer,  on 
the  high  seas!    I'll  show  them.    Full  speed  ahead!" 

Obediently  the  Second  moved  a  little  brass  knob 
slightly  to  the  right  and  the  Istria  cut  into  the 
troubled  water  which  the  big  thirteen-inch  had 
raised.    It  bubbled  and  rustled  like  fresh  soda  water. 

Meanwhile  the  cruiser  had  disappeared  again  in 
the  fog,  but  in  a  few  minutes  more  she  had  com- 
pleted her  circle  and  was  back  again  in  the  Istria's 
fairway,  her  big  gun  pointed  "so  that  we  could  look 
down  its  ugly  thrapple!"  said  the  lad  from  Leith. 

"She  must  be  doing  twenty-nine  at  least,"  gasped 
the  Captain,  "what  can  she  want  with  us?" 

He  was  soon  told. 

"Heave  to,  there,  or  we  will  sink  you!"  the  voice 


AN  ACT  OF  WAR  177 

came  in  the  curious  trumpet  English,  now  not  often 
used  at  sea,  "we  are  sending  a  boat!" 

The  Captain  of  the  Istria  choked. 

"Show  your  colours,  you  white-washed  pirate,"  he 
yelled  through  his  palms,  "I'll  let  you  know  what  it 
is  to  stop  an  English  steamer  carrying  government 
mails.  I  know  you,  you  sanguinarious  dago,  you 
and  your  bankrupt  government  have  been  wantmg  a 
swipe  at  us  for  a  considerable  while !  Wait  till  half- 
a-dozen  of  Admiralty  Jack's  bull-dogs  get  after  you, 
that's  all!" 

All  the  same,  as  Number  Two  informed  him  that 
the  big  twelve-inch  was  being  trained  directly  on  the 
Istria,  Captain  Stark  reluctantly  gave  the  order,  and 
in  a  short  time  the  famous  Red  Funnel  mail-boat 
was  rocking  on  the  grey  cradle  of  the  Atlantic. 

It  seemed  no  more  than  a  moment  before  the  ash- 
coloured  cruiser  was  quite  close  in.  A  launch  was 
putting  out. 

"Show  your  colours,"  shouted  the  angry  captain, 
"or  up  with  the  Black  Flag,  if  you  are  a  pirate!  I'd 
rather  sink  than  surrender  to  any  blamed  sea-tramp, 
with  a  big  pop-gun  looking  out  of  a  hen-coop!" 

Slowly  a  flag,  tricolor  in  green,  white,  and  red 
with  a  Savoyard  cross  on  the  white  fluttered  out. 

"Italian!  Glory  Christopher!  It's  the  Pope 
they're  after!"  cried  the  Captain,  astonished  out  of 
his  dignity.  "Why  didn't  our  people  tip  me  the 
wink  at  Gibraltar,  so  that  I  might  have  been  saved 
running  the  old  Istria  into  this  mess?" 

As  for  me,  I  had  been  on  deck  for  some  time, 


178       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

standing  immediately  below  the  bridge.  What  I  did 
not  hear  has  been  filled  in  since  by  my  countryman 
the  lad  from  Leith.  MacVeagh  says  how  that  he 
"smelt  dago  a  mile  off."  And  certainly  he  was  the 
first  to  declare  his  belief.  But  the  Captain  swore 
on  and  on,  chiefly  about  the  idiots  in  Gibraltar  who 
must  have  known  that  Britain  was  on  the  verge  of 
war  with  Italy,  and  yet  let  him  take  his  vessel 
straight  into  this  trap.  "Just  like  those  blank  red- 
tape  lobsters!"  he  said. 

They  were  certainly  a  smartly-drilled  set  aboard 
of  our  captor.  With  a  double  handful  of  steam  they 
ran  out  a  small  electric  launch,  and  let  her  go  easily 
into  the  water.  Then  while  she  rode  high  like  a  life- 
boat on  the  long  slow  Atlantic  swell,  we  could  pick 
out  the  arms  of  the  house  of  Savoy  set  forth  on  either 
side  of  her  prow. 

"Heavens,  she's  gold-leaf  all  over!"  said  Number 
One  admiringly,  "somebody  has  done  some  clever 
monkeying  with  paint-pots  and  books  of  gold-leaf 
to  get  her  as  smart  as  that — after  all  that  coaling 
too!" 

This  was  the  genuine  admiration  of  the  Man  who 
Knew. 

Yet  to  the  eye  of  the  Mercantile  Marine  as  rep- 
resented by  the  three  officers  on  the  bridge,  there 
was  something  curiously  mechanical  and  unseaman- 
like  about  the  crew.  They  moved  "all  of  a  piece" — 
without  elasticity. 

"Land  marines  doing  landing  drill,"  said  Mister 
Jackson,  who  had  seen  something  of  the  Royal  Navy 


AN  ACT  OF  WAR  179 

in  a  former  life,  and  now  said  little  about  the  ex- 
perience. Presently  a  neat  little  three-inch  quick- 
firer  in  the  bows  was  unjacketed,  and  we  could  see 
the  long  lead  pencil  of  brass,  which  was  a  shell, 
dropped  duly  in.  "Click,"  and  a  screw  turned 
X-wise  behind.  All  was  taut  there.  An  officer  was 
squinting  along  the  sights.  It  almost  seemed  as  if 
they  were  going  to  sink  the  Istria  there  and  then, 
against  all  laW'S  and  international  obligations. 

"They  might  at  least  have  done  it  clearly  with 
the  thirteen-inch,"  growled  the  First  Lieutenant; 
"but  that  little  fire-squirt — O  hang!" 

"It  will  do  our  job  just  as  well  as  the  other," 
said  the  lad  from  Leith,  "but  the  thing  that  gets 
me  is  what  sort  of  engines  they  have  packed  away 
in  the  hull  of  her,  which  can  walk  round  the  Istria 
at  nineteen  good  as  if  she  were  standing  still!  It  is 
uncanny!" 

"Hullo,  w^hat  do  you  want?"  cried  the  Captain  to 
the  officer  who  stood  manipulating  a  little  automo- 
bile steering  wheel  of  shining  metal  iii  the  stern  of 
the  approaching  boat.  All  of  the  launch  that  was 
not  machinery  was  packed  with  armed  men. 

Put  down  your  ladder.  I  will  come  on  board  and 
teU  you!"  said  the  officer  in  the  stern,  slowing  down 
to  quarter  speed  with  a  single  pull  of  a  lever. 

The  Captain  of  the  Istria  replied  with  minute 
directions  as  to  where  he  would  see  him  first.  But 
the  naval  officer  was  unmoved. 

"I. .  .give. .  .you. .  .one. .  .minuta,"  he  replied,  in 
his  usual  staccato.    "Then  I  sinka-you!" 


180       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

"There  is  no  war  between  Britain  and  Italy!" 
shouted  the  Captain.  "If  there  had  been  I  should 
have  heard  of  it  at  Venice  or  Gib!" 

"Halve. .  .a. .  .minuta. .  .you. .  .are. .  .gone!"  said 
the  officer.  The  head  of  the  man  in  the  bows  dis- 
appeared behind  the  dainty  little  Krupp  quick-firer 
with  the  brass  lead-pencil  inside. 

"All  right!"  sang  out  the  lad  from  Leith,  "I'll 
have  the  ladder  out!" 

"And  I'll  have  you  in  irons!"  said  his  chief,  as  the 
men  sprang  to  the  stanchions.  But  all  the  same, 
deep  in  his  heart,  he  was  grateful  to  the  Scot.  He 
had  his  passengers  to  think  of,  besides  the  insurance 
people.  Moreover,  did  he  not  belong  to  a  line  whose 
boast  it  was  never  to  have  lost  a  ship  or  a  letter? 

The  officer  who  had  been  steering  the  launch 
handed  over  the  little  biassed  steering-wheel  to  a 
grimy  man,  who  seemed  to  us  on  the  Istria  to  rise 
from  the  depths.  He  was,  doubtless,  the  working 
engineer. 

Then  with  an  armed  guard  the  Italian  officer 
came  on  board.  Four  men  preceded  him,  standing 
at  the  ladder  head,  revolvers  at  their  belts,  the  latest 
type  of  army  repeaters  in  their  hands.  Two  by  two, 
four  bayonets  winked  in  the  sun.  The  junior  officer 
still  crouched  behind  his  quick-firer.  His  senior  came 
slowly  up,  and  the  Captain  and  our  First  Lieutenant 
came  down  to  the  side  to  receive  him.  The  officer 
saluted,  and  after  a  struggle  with  the  national  tem- 
per our  Captain  returned  the  civility.  But  he  waited 


AN  ACT  OF  WAR  181 

for  the  other  to  speak.  He  did  so  with  the  same 
dry  rasp,  spacing  his  words. 

"You  have  a  passenger  on  board "  he  began. 

"I  have  one  hundred  and  ninety-four/'  said  the 
Captain  proudly,  "all  under  the  protection  of  the 
British  flag." 

The  officer  shrugged  his  shoulders  slightly. 

"I  have  my  orders,"  he  said,  "I  am  here  to  carry 
them  out.  I  have  come  to  transfer  the  man  calling 
himself  the  White  Pope  to  the  vessel  yonder  of 
which  I  have  the  honour  to  be  a  second-lieutenant!" 

"What  is  your  ship's  name  and  by  what  authority 
do  you  commit  this  outrage  on  the  high  seas?" 

The  captor  of  the  Istria  hesitated  a  little. 

"I  belong  to  the  cruiser  Trombetta,  recently 
attached  to  the  Italian  navy.  Here  is  the  King's 
mandate  for  what  I  do.    He  is  on  board." 

He  handed  the  Istria's  captain  a  folded  com- 
munication. The  Captain  looked  at  the  papet  with 
a  bewildered  expression. 

"But,"  he  cried,  "at  Gibraltar  I  received  orders 
from  the  British  Government  to  deliver  the  Pope 
Christopher  only  to  the  proper  officers  at  Southamp- 
ton!" 

The  Italian  officer  smiled  faintly. 

"And  perhaps,"  he  said,  "that  is  why  I  am  here!" 

"But,  sir,  this  is  an  Enghsh  mail  steamer,  properly 
subsidised  and  in  the  first  transport  reserve.  What 
you  are  doing  means  war!" 

"I  have  nothing  to  do  with  that,"  said  the  Italian 
officer,  "my  master  is  prepared  to  take  the  responsi- 


182       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

bility  of  that.  The  White  Pope  belongs  to  us.  His 
place  is  in  Rome.  He  must  not,  he  shall  not  go  to 
England." 

"Why,  sir,"  cried  the  infuriated  Captain  of  the 
Istria,  ''has  your  master  forgotten  the  British  navy? 
We  will  blow  your  brand-new  fleet  out  of  the  water 
in  a  week.  We  will  sweep  your  commerce  and  your 
flag  off  the  face  of^he  seas " 

"Enough,"  said  the  visitor,  with  hauteur,  "give  . 
my  compliments  most  respectful  to  the  Pope  Chris- 
topher, and  ask  him  to  come  to  me  immediately  with 
his  suite!" 

"His  suite!  Lord  help  his  suite!"  cried  the  Cap- 
tain, "I  suppose  you  think  the  Istria  is  chock-full  of 
cardinals  and  archbishops.  We  have  only  one  priest 
— this  is  he!"  And  he  showed  Vergas,  sitting  heavy 
and  sullen  on  a  deck-chair,  taking  the  accidents  of 
sea-travel  as  he  had  taken  the  earthquake  rift  and 
the  volcanic  burst,  with  an  equal  indifference. 

Then  the  Captain  called  me  to  his  side. 

"Mr.  Cargill,"  he  said  (accenting,  like  all  the 
English,  the  first  syllable  of  my  name),  "go  and  tell 
the  White  Pope  of  this.  I  can  do  no  more.  My  ship 
cannot  fight  a  first-rate  cruiser,  and  I  have  my  own- 
ers to  think  of.  But  you,  sir  (turning  to  the 
Italian),  remember  this  is  a  matter  of  war.  I  pro- 
test in  the  name  of  the  British  government  and  all 
its  allied  nations.  It  is  a  Mason-and-Slidel  busi- 
ness! I  shall  report  it  as  soon  as  I  reach  Southamp- 
ton!" 

"Very  well,"  said  the  officer.    "I  take  all  responsi- 


AN  ACT  OF  WAR  183 

bility.  I  will  give  you  a  written  receipt  for  the 
White  Pope  and  his  suite.  Moreover  there  is  my 
card,  and  if  you  consider  that  in  any  way  I  have 
surpassed  my  duty  as  an  ofiQcer,  I  am  at  your  service 
when  and  where  you  please." 

But  it  was  clear  enough  that  he  had  not  done  so, 
and  that  the  responsibility  for  the  forcible  seizure 
of  the  White  Pope  lay  far  higher  than  a  second- 
lieutenant  of  the  Trombetta  of  the  Royal  Navy  of 
Savoy. 

The  White  Pope  took  the  matter  very  calmly.  He 
rose  at  once,  shutting  a  small  Greek  testament  which 
contained  only  the  four  gospels,  in  which  he  read 
continually. 

"Bid  my  mother  make  all  things  ready,"  he  said, 
"also  speak  with  those  of  you  who  desire  to  abide 
with  me.    How  many  are  there?" 

"All,"  said  I,  "not  one  shall  be  missing,  your 
mother,  Cipriano,  Zini,  Vergas,  I  myself,  the  first 
of  all." 

"Aye,  you  were  the  first,"  he  said,  touching  me 
on  the  shoulder — "first,  that  is,  after  the  woman 
Mary  Orloff,  called  my  mother." 

The  transhipment  was  no  long  business.  There 
was  little  luggage  among  us,  besides  the  plain  peas- 
ant sacks  of  Mary  Orloff,  her  washing-board,  box 
iron,  and  nest  of  cooking  pots.  My  money  I  carried 
about  with  me  in  English  notes  and  letters  of  credit. 
General  Cipriano  also  had  something  in  his  pocket- 


184       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

book,  and  his  kit  occupied  a  little  dressing  case 
which  he  had  bought  at  Malta. 

The  passengers  crowded  the  side  to  see  us  off.  The 
big  cruiser  kept  her  cavernous  twelve-inch  gun 
pointed  straight  at  us.  There  was  no  cheering.  The 
lad  from  Leith  had  draped  a  little  Union  Jack  over 
the  gangway,  to  emphasize  the  act  of  war  com- 
mitted on  the  high  seas.  The  Captain  of  the  Istria 
had  given  the  Italian  officer  a  witnessed  copy  of  his 
own  government  orders  received  at  Gibraltar. 

"I  take  note  of  them,"  he  answered,  "nevertheless 
I  pass  outside  them,  and  with  my  royal  master  will 
rest  the  full  responsibility  for  my  act!" 

In  exchange  he  gave  a  well-written  receipt  in  a 
good  round  commercial  English  hand  of  which  he 
seemed  proud. 

The  Istria  receded.  The  ashen  misty  cruiser  in- 
creased in  size  as  we  approached.  Grey-white  was 
her  colour  with  one  broad  gold  line,  and  the  flag  of 
Savoy  drooped  over  the  stern.  There  was  no  ques- 
tion but  that  we  had  yielded  to  the  jorce  majeure. 

On  board  the  Tromhetta  the  men  were  at  their 
quarters  as  before  a  fight.  There  was  no  going  to 
and  fro.  The  officer  who  had  boarded  the  Istria 
went  to  the  bridge  and  reported  to  an  older  man 
with  a  grey  beard.  They  spoke  together  softly. 
Then  the  officer  returned  to  us. 

"Pope  Christopher  is  to  go  below,"  he  said.  "He 
may  choose  one  other  to  accompany  him.  No  harm 
is  intended  to  any." 

I  was  the  chosen  of  the  White  Pope.     We  de- 


AN  ACT  OF  WAR  185 

scended  together,  the  marines  or  soldiers  (I  am  not 
sure  which)  presented  arms,  and  the  officer  accom- 
panied us. 

He  opened  a  door  without  knocking.  We  saw 
before  us  a  wide  well-hghted  cabin,  and  a  tall 
square-built  man  rose  at  our  entrance.  A  tall  man 
with  black  rebellious  hair  stood  opposite  in  clerical 
garments.  He  was  too  young  to  be  called  old,  yet 
the  eyes  were  those  of  an  old  man  who  had  seen 
much,  determined  much,  ordered  much,  in  the  course 
of  many  years. 

The  moustached  man  held  himself  erect  a  mo- 
ment, with  the  peculiar  rigidity  which  seemed  to 
characterise  everything  about  his  navy.  Then  all 
suddenly,  he  bent  his  knee. 

"Your  blessing.  Most  Holy  One!"  he  said,  his 
face  bowed  between  his  hands.  But  the  Ecclesiastic 
stood  stiff  and  contemptuous,  his  blue-black  chin 
thrust  forward,  his  hair  bristling  and  his  eyes  keen 
and  vehement. 

I  was  permitted  to  see  no  more,  for  the  young 
officer  led  me  hastily  away  from  that  first  conference 
of  the  great. 


CHAPTER  XXI :    UNDER  THE  CROSS  OF 

SAVOY 

At  top  speed  went  the  Trombetta  straight  for  the 
narrows  of  Gibraltar.  She  was  doing  nearly  thirty 
knots  an  hour.  We  might  hope  to  pass  the  English 
fortress  before  news  of  the  raid  reached  it.  Once 
inside  the  Mediterranean  the  ship  would  be  safe. 
The  French  had  no  coal  to  waste  in  vague  cruising 
such  as  the  English  indulge  in. 

As  fast  as  screws  could  push,  the  Pope  would  find 
himself  opposite  the  mouth  of  the  Tiber.  The 
officers  on  deck  had  no  doubt  of  the  wisdom  of  all 
this.  On  the  part  of  England  there  would  be  an 
outburst  of  anger.  That  of  course!  But  Italy 
formed  part  of  the  Triple  Alliance,  and  if  she  were 
attacked,  Germany  and  Austria  would  find  them- 
selves bound  by  their  treaty  obligations.  It  was 
(according  to  the  upper  deck)  a  clear,  well-thought 
out,  determinate  plan. 

Italy,  the  immemorial  home  of  the  true  Pope, 
could  not  afford  to  lose  to  England  the  immense 
advantage  of  being  chosen  as  the  residence  of  the 
sovran  pontiff. 

All  this  might  turn  out  as  the  officers  said,  but  I 
had  my  doubts.  I  had  seen  the  instant  and  un- 
affected homage  rendered  by  the  King,  while  the 

186 


UNDER  THE  CROSS  OF  SAVOY         187 

prelate  stood  by  haughty  and  contemptuous.  I  did 
not  believe  it  was  all  high  politics,  based  on  the 
entanglements  of  mighty  protections  and  alUances. 

I  began  to  get  glimpses  of  a  strong  soul  funda- 
mentally nearer  to  that  of  the  White  Pope  than 
those  of  bishops  or  cardinals.  And  I  had  hope.  For 
if  the  King  of  Italy  held  for  our  Master,  the  College 
of  Cardinals  itself  could  not  shut  him  up  in  the 
eleven  thousand  chambers  of  the  Vatican. 

However,  I  was  soon  to  know  more.  For  the 
second  time  I  received  a  summons,  respectful  enough 
I  admit,  to  present  myself  immediately  in  the  Cap- 
tain's cabin.  Here  I  found  the  White  Pope,  seated 
in  a  great  chair,  the  only  one  in  the  place.  He 
smiled  and  welcomed  me  with  his  usual  benignity. 
I  was  to  stand  behind  his  chair  during  the  coming 
interview — to  be,  in  short,  his  witness.  It  almost 
seemed  as  if  he  knew  that  one  day  it  should  fall  to 
my  lot  to  write  all  these  things. 

From  the  first  I  could  see  that  the  King  waa 
excusing  himself.  He  spoke  as  if  pleading  a  cause 
which  he  knew  already  lost. 

"Holiness,"  he  said,  "I  have  taken  you  from  the 
English.  It  is  an  act  quite  indefensible.  It  may 
mean  war,  and  peril  to  my  kingdom.  Yet  I  could 
do  no  other.  I  desire  to  hear  the  word  from  your 
own  lips,  and  hearing,  obey." 

The  White  Pope  drew  from  his  bosom  the  little 
vellum-bound  copy  of  the  gospels  and  held  it  out  to 
the  King. 


188       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

"There/*  he  said,  smiling  gently,  "now  let  me  go 
my  way." 

The  King  took  the  book,  glanced  within,  and 
shook  his  head. 

"Most  Holy,"  he  said,  returning  it  respectfully, 
"all  this  I  have  known  from  my  youth.  Ever  since 
my  grandfather  gave  them  permission,  the  American 
Bible  Societies  and  those  of  England  have  placed 
hundreds  of  millions  of  these  in  the  houses  of  my 
people.  Am  I  the  better?  Are  they  changed?  The 
truth  doubtless  is  in  the  printed  word,  but  who  shall 
bring  it  out?" 

"Holy  Church!"  exclaimed  the  Ecclesiastic  sud- 
denly taking  jSre.  "Holy  Church,  by  means  of  her 
ordained  and  accredited  ministers!" 

The  King  waved  him  iinpatiently  aside. 

"That  also  is  in  vain,"  he  said.  "I  have  listened 
many  times — to  yourself  even,  Cardinal,  and  never 
once  did  I  go  forth  with  peace  in  which  to  enjoy  my 
soul.  Man  is  not  to  be  won  by  words,  spoken  or 
written,  unless  he  find  the  true  Messenger — one 
answering  to  his  spirit's  need — who  (I  take  your 
phrase)  speaks  with  authority  and  not  as  the 
scribes." 

"To  whom  much  is  given,  of  him  also  much  shall 
be  required!"  said  the  Priest  austerely.  He  avoided 
the  eyes  of  the  White  Pope.  This  was  the  more 
noticeable,  because  his  own  were  bold  and  black 
enough.  There  was  something  forceful  and  deter- 
mined about  him.  I  had  seen  his  photograph  stand- 
ing behind  the  chair  of  another  White  Pope.    This 


UNDER  THE  CROSS  OF  SAVOY         189 

was  he  who,  as  a  young  man,  had  conducted  the 
suave  and  far-reaching  politics  of  Leo  XIII.  Temi 
had  been  his  secretary.  He  ought  twice  to  have  been 
Pope,  save  for  the  hatred  of  Austria — once  at  the 
accession  of  Pius  the  Tenth,  and  again  when  they 
threw  out  both  Salviati  the  Venetian  and  himself 
in  order  to  choose  Brother  Christopher  of  the  Holy 
Sepulchre,  called  "The  Light  out  of  the  East." 

A  powerful  man  was  this  Temi,  the  power  behind 
two  tiaras,  still  young,  though  he  had  twice  seen 
the  triple  crown  itself  slip  from  his  grasp.  The 
White  Pope  had  never  met  any  such  man  as  this. 
Yet  he  handled  him  with  the  same  baffling  sim- 
pUcity. 

"I  thank  you,  Cardinal  Temi,"  he  said,  "for  the 
offers  of  service  you  make.  I  know  you  to  be  faith- 
ful.   I  have  need  of  you.    Follow  me!" 

Then  there  ensued  a  battle  of  looks  between  them. 
Terni  stood  erect  and  frowning,  a  black  cliff  of  a 
man,  and  the  influence  of  the  White  Pope  played 
about  him  like  morning  sunshine.  Yet  I  could  not 
imagine  such  a  man  giving  way  like  the  others. 

But  ever  since  I  had  seen  the  glory  of  the  New 
Faith  light  up  the  rugged  features  of  Vergas  the 
Priest  I  could  be  surprised  at  nothing.  Brother 
Christopher  beckoned  Terni  aside,  and  spoke  a  few 
sentences  low  in  his  ear.  I  could  not  say  that  there 
were  any  violent  signs  of  abrupt  spiritual  change. 
He  did  not  kneel.  He  did  not  protest,  but  somehow 
when  I  saw  him  again  full  face  the  man  was  differ- 
ent.   Temi  was  all  head,  and  the  heart  was  kept 


190       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

firmly  in  check.  But  he  listened  and  nodded  like  a 
good  and  faithful  servant  taking  his  orders.  One 
word  only  I  caught,  and  it  came  at  the  end  of  a  long 
softly  spoken  speech  of  the  White  Pope. 

"Holy  Father,  if  it  be  thy  will,  let  us  even  go 
back  to  Rome  and  speak  face  to  face  with  the* breth- 
ren of  the  curia.  They  await  my  return,  though  not 
(you  may  imagine)  as  the  willing  and  faithful 
servitor  of  your  Holiness." 

During  this  colloquy  the  King  had  stood  at  a 
distance  that  he  might  not  intrude  upon  the  two 
great  churchmen.  The  house  of  Savoy  had  not 
always  been  so  complaisant  towards  the  spirituali- 
ties, but  these  were  changed  daj^'s,  and  wherever  the 
foster-son  of  Mary  Orloff  went,  the  firmest  lines  of 
will  and  character  blurred  and  were  changed  before 
him. 

The  moment  of  anxiety  approached.  We  were 
nearing  Gibraltar,  and  every  moment  we  expected 
to  sight  the  great  couchant  lion  which  advertises  the 
sea-power  of  Britain  to  all  men  of  all  nations  who 
use  the  Midland  sea  for  commerce  or  for  pleasure. 

The  third  officer  told  me  that  we  were  making 
not  less  than  twenty-eight  knots  as  we  passed  like 
a  grey  bolt  through  the  crowded  waters  of  Tarifa. 
We  kept  well  to  the  south  and  trusted  to  our  speed. 
The  Cardiff  coal  was  burnt  out  and  we  had  fallen 
back  on  the  soft  stuff  which  the  Tromhetta  had 
taken  on  board  off  Oporto.  In  consequence,  our 
funnels  poured  out  four  separate  streams  of  densest 


UNDER  THE  CROSS  OF  SAVOY         191 

black  smoke,  which  trained  away  behind  us  upon 
the  water.  This  advertised  our  speed  also,  and  it 
seemed  likely  that  some  of  the  watchers  at  Gibraltar 
would  come  forth  to  inquire  what  ship  was  entering 
the  Shut  Sea  so  hastily  without  leave  asked  and 
granted  by  the  Masters  thereof. 

It  was  late  evening,  and  the  long  war-like  promon- 
tory lay  out  grey  and  black.  All  our  eyes  were  on 
the  opening  of  the  harbour,  and  I  think  that  on 
board  most  men  held  their  breaths. 

The  question  was — had  Lisbon  or  Oporto  tele- 
graphed the  news  of  the  stopping  of  the  Istriaf  The 
Trombetta  was,  so  far  as  paper  reports  went,  the 
fastest  ship  on  the  waters  of  the  world,  excepting 
only  a  few  destroyers  which  would  hardly  dare  to 
attack  so  big  a  boat.  But  then,  as  Captain  Crispi 
pointed  out,  the  British  Admiralty  generally  had 
something  up  its  sleeve. 

Europa  Point  had  not  been  passed  when  a  little 
cloud  of  fast  cruisers  sprang  out  and  made  after  us. 
We  were  going  through  the  Straits  full  tilt  with  the 
swiftness  of  a  thrown  shuttle.  Also  we  were  far  to 
the  south  on  the  African  side.  It  seemed  a  vain 
attempt,  and  in  any  case  the  stern  chase  would 
obviously  be  of  the  longest. 

Still  it  was  evident  that  they  had  been  ready  with 
steam  up,  for  they  left  no  such  trail  of  arrogant 
reek  behind  them  as  we  were  doing,  defiling  the 
heavens  and  soiling  the  blue  sea  floor  with  greasy 
coils  of  vapour. 

"Holy  Anthony  of  Padua,"  cried  Captain  Crispi, 


192       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

"are  they  burning  smokeless  powder,  these  wasps  of 
the  English?  Ah,  there  they  go!"  Behind  us  out 
of  the  dusky  and  tumbled  sea  upon  which  we  were 
ruling  our  wake  rose  an  enormous  geyser,  spouting 
creamily  white  against  the  lingering  purple  of  the 
sunset. 

"That's  one  of  the  big  fellows  on  the  Rock.  They 
can  send  their  pills  across  the  Straits — so  they  say, 
at  least.  God  let  us  speedily  out  of  this,  for  we 
cannot  engage  Gibraltar  with  our  one  forward  pop 
guns,  even  if  we  had  time." 

"If  only  the  King  would  let  them  run  (the  officers 
murmured)  all  would  be  right.  Nothing  could  have 
the  heels  of  them  with  the  start  they  already  had. 

"//  only  the  King  would  let  them  run!" 

This  earnest  prayer  from  the  whole  upper  deck 
was  (as  it  were)  pockmarked  with  the  bursting 
shells  of  the  pursuing  squadron.  It  was  nervous 
work,  and  the  brave  men  who  had  nothing  to  do  but 
watch  could,  with  difficulty,  conceal  their  anxiety. 
The  navigators  demanded  more  and  more  room  on 
the  bridge,  and  their  exhortations  to  the  engine- 
room  grew  more  and  more  fervent.  The  Captain 
opened  and  snapped  his  hunting-case  watch,  but  he 
consulted  the  back  at  least  as  often  as  the  front — 
all  this  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  a  flat  bridge  clock 
lay  immediately  under  his  eye. 

They  were  not  afraid,  these  Italian  officers.  On 
the  contrary,  none  of  any  navy  were  braver  or  better 
skilled.  Had  they  not  been  schooled  by  Cavalcanti? 
But  they  had  their  King  on  board,  and  they  had 


UNDER  THE  CROSS  OF  SAVOY         193 

risked  much  to  bring  home  the  White  Pope.  A 
chance  shell  finding  its  way  into  the  engine-room 
would  mean  a  catastrophe  not  to  be  thought  of. 

But  they  were  drawing  away.  The  English  boats 
could  not  make  up  the  ten  miles  of  leeway  with 
which  they  had  started.  They  managed  to  reduce 
it  by  half,  but  they  could  get  no  farther.  Cleared 
to  the  barest  fightmg  trim,  nothing  showing  but  the 
groups  of  anxious  officers  aloft,  the  Italian  colours 
carefully  wrapped  about  the  hamp,  the  Tromhetta 
slipped  through  the  Straits,  and,  taking  no  risks, 
headed  for  the  south  point  of  their  own  Sardinia. 

Only  the  Levinholt,  armoured  destroyer  of  the 
latest  type,  was  proving  in  the  least  dangerous, 

"Pigs  of  English!"  said  Captain  Crispi,  snapping 
his  Zeiss  binocular  fiercely,  "oh,  twice  and  three 
times  accursed!" 

"Shall  we  let  go  now?"  said  the  young  gunnery 
lieutenant  at  his  elbow  who  had  been  aching  for  a 
chance.  He  glanced  in  the  direction  of  his  beloved 
twelve-inch,  "in  ten  minutes  it  will  be  a  pretty  shot 
at  five  thousand  metres,  sir!" 

But  the  Captain  shook  his  head  emphatically. 
"We  dare  not  slacken  a  moment,"  he  said,  "we  have 
only  just  enough  coal  to  do  it.  If  only  we  could 
have  been  sure  that  the  Straits  of  Bonifacio  were 
open — it  would  have  been  different.  But  we  must 
give  ourselves  sea  room.  No  Straits  of  Tsushima 
traps  for  me,  lieutenant!  We  must  keep  the  speed 
we  have  and  risk  it." 

"Then  that  fast  flyer  will  certainly  torpedo  us.    I 


194       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

can  see  the  new  aerial  tubes !    She  is  going  to  shoot," 
The  lieutenant  of  gunnery  was  right,   but  the 
Captain  clapped  his  hand  resoundingly  on  the  rail 
in  front  of  him. 

"We  must  risk  it— I  tell  you— we  have  got  to  risk 
it.  Otherwise  we  should  have  to  surrender  the  King 
on  his  own  ship  and  my  shame  would  be  greater 
than  that  of  Lissa  and  Adowa  put  together — Ah, 
hero  he  comes!" 

The  King  had  come  on  deck.  Beside  him,  and  as 
usual  a  little  in  front,  was  the  White  Pope.  Temi 
followed,  much  subdued  in  manner,  yet  with  the 
first  aurora  of  a  new  nobility  dawning  on  his  face. 
The  leaven  was  working. 

These  three  climbed  upon  the  bridge  and  stood 
by  the  Captain,  all  gazing  back  at  the  pursuers. 

"Sire,"  said  the  Captain  with  bitterness  in  his 
voice,  "we  are  doing  all  that  is  humanly  possible— 
but,  the  truth  is,  we  have  now  no  coal  worth  burn- 
ing in  our  bunkers." 

The  eyes  of  the  young  King  sought  the  long  far- 
reaching  snout  of  the  big  twelve-inch.  But  before 
he  had  time  to  give  an  order  the  White  Pope  laid 
a  hand  upon  his  arm.  They  stood  in  silence  eyeing 
the  pursuit.  The  long  four-funnelled,  black,  spiteful- 
looking  Levinholt,  going  so  fast  that  she  was  at 
times  almost  buried  in  the  spume  raised  by  her  own 
speed,  was  relentlessly  closing  in  on  their  port  side. 
Behind,  three  big  cruisers,  slower  in  getting  away, 
were  building  themselves  up  out  of  the  water  and 
gradually  overhauling  the  slackening  Trombetta. 


UNDER  THE  CROSS  OF  SAVOY         196 

"Believe  me,"  said  the  voice  of  the  White  Pope, 
gentle  as  the  tinkling  fall  of  a  fountain  in  a  still 
garden,  "these  English  ships  shall  do  us  no  harm. 
I  see  the  things  which  are  to  be.  The  black  shapes 
that  come  up  so  fast  through  the  sea  shall  not  over- 
take us.    Only  be  patient!    Wait!" 

He  stretched  out  a  white  and  delicate  index  finger, 
sweeping  it  in  the  segment  of  a  circle  from  the  rush- 
ing destroyer  to  the  three  labouring  cruisers. 

Instantly  came  a  marvellous  change  in  the 
straight  racing  drive  with  which  they  were  over- 
taking us.  The  thirty-five  knot  Levinholt  turned  a 
half  circle  as  a  Whitehead  torpedo  does  when  some- 
thing goes  wrong  with  its  steering  gear.  The  Em- 
phatic,  first-class  cruiser  of  the  1912  programme, 
came  to  a  standstill,  enveloped  in  clouds  of  steam. 
Her  sister  ships  (1910  and  1911),  the  Rampant  and 
the  Desperate,  halted  impotently  not  a  mile  on 
either  side  of  her.  One  had  snapped  a  shaft,  and  a 
cable  from  some  unseen  half-submerged  wreckage 
had  wound  itself  in  an  intimate  tangle  about  her 
twin  propellers. 

Such  things  might  happen  any  day  and  to  any 
ship.  It  was  only  strange  that  they  should  have 
synchronised — that  was  all. 

And  lo !  the  mountains  of  Sardinia,  the  grey  stone 
towers,  piled  by  the  hands  of  giants,  and  behind  us 
the  helpless  pursuers,  now  small  and  clear  as  if  seen 
through  the  reverse  end  of  a  telescope ! 

The  crew  stood  open-mouthed.  The  officers  looked 
at  one  another  as  men  that  dreamed. 


196       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

I  stood  behind,  wondering  if  I  had  seen  a  miracle 
or,  if  I  had  not,  by  what  other  name  I  should  caU  it. 

The  White  Pope  divined  my  thoughts,  and  speak- 
ing over  his  shoulder  without  looking  at  me  he  said : 
"My  son,  tell  it  to  no  man." 

And  I  did  not — but  now  the  prohibition,  together 
with  all  others,  is  lifted.    And  I  have  told. 


CHAPTER  XXII:    THE  PURSUIT 

Meantime  the  pursuers  of  the  Trombetta  were 
given  over  to  anger  and  dismay.  The  movement, 
hastily  and  admirably  planned,  had  failed,  though 
till  the  moment  of  the  series  of  accidents  all  had 
gone  like  clockwork. 

Who  could  foresee  the  bursting  of  a  boiler-tube, 
the  breaking  of  a  main  shaft,  or  the  other  accidents 
which  had  befallen  them.  If  they  had  not  all  been 
in  the  same  box,  there  would  have  been  disputes, 
recriminations  even,  because  in  the  British  Navy  no 
excuse  is  accepted  except  success.  As  things  were, 
it  was  wisest  to  say  nothing  about  the  remarkable 
series  of  coincidences  which  had  put  them  out  of 
action. 

The  new  Italian  boat  had  the  heels  of  anything  of 
her  size  in  the  seven  seas.  The  Admiralty,  so  far 
as  the  Mediterranean  was  concerned,  must  look  to 
it.  But  behind  them  the  big  Super-Dreadnoughts 
which  constituted  the  Mediterranean  Fleet  came 
lumbering  up,  ready  to  bombard  the  entire  Italian 
coast-line  with  its  clustering  ports,  from  Genoa  to 
Palermo,  and  from  Venice  to  Spartivento. 

If  Italy  were  indeed  a  great  power,  if  she  claimed 
(as  her  prime  ministers  had  often  claimed  for  her) 
to  be  the  first  naval  power  in  these  waters,  she  must 

197 


198       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

now  submit  to  the  arbitrament  of  battle.  Huge 
solid  shells  would  rend  her  recently  completed  con- 
crete quays.  Gigantic  store-houses  would  be  un- 
roofed and  set  on  fire,  mile-long  warehouses  and 
imposing  government  offices  burned  to  the  ground. 
In  the  dubious  shelter  of  her  naval  ports,  her  fleet 
would  be  penned  and  bombarded.  England  was  not 
going  to  sit  still  under  an  insult,  deliberately  planned 
and  carried  out  on  her  own  high  seas,  for  centuries 
her  mere  back  garden  or  watery  appanage. 

Meanwhile,  as  for  the  Trombetta,  she  ran  straight 
for  Spezia,  swift  as  a  homing  pigeon.  The  low-built 
forts,  green  to  the  top,  scientifically  placed  all  round, 
soon  fenced  her  in. 

"They  will  not  attack  us  here,"  said  Baratieri,  a 
young  officer  of  marines,  the  heir  to  a  great  though 
tarnished  name,  that  of  a  dullish,  mediocre  faithful 
man  who  had  been  made  a  scapegoat  by  the  govern- 
ment of  the  day.  The  King,  who  was  free  with  all, 
heard  him  and  answered,  "Not  so,  young  man — wait 
a  while.  They  have  not  begun  on  us  yet,  those 
English.  They  are  only  very  angry.  They  know 
that  the  forcing  of  a  naval  port  like  Spezia,  strongly 
defended,  would  require  too  heavy  a  price.  For  that 
they  would  wait  for  the  French,  who  are  policing  the 
Mediterranean  for  them.  But  Genoa,  Leghorn, 
Naples,  Messina,  Palermo,  they  are  in  different  case. 
If  they  are  destroyed  or  even  blockaded — why,  al- 
ready fear  stalks  the  streets  of  Rome! 

"The  merchant  cannot  get  in  his  raw  material, 
nor  his  finished  goods  out.     We  hurry  up  troops, 


THE  PURSUIT  199 

and  the  troops  must  be  fed.  They  can  land  where 
they  will,  attack  where  they  will.  Alliances  cannot 
help  us  here  while  they  command  the  sea.  Sicily, 
Sardinia,  the  Tripolitaine  are  theirs  for  the  taking. 
We  are  cursed  with  fourteen  hundred  miles  of  coast 
line  which  we  cannot  guard." 

"King,"  said  the  White  Pope,  "you  are  more  fit 
to  be  my  servant  than  the  slave  of  the  Emperors' 
alliance.  You  know  the  good,  yet  the  evil  clings 
to  you.  They  will  not  let  you  disband  your  armies, 
turn  your  ironclads  into  traffic-boats,  because  those 
with  whom  you  and  yours  have  taken  part  have 
aroused  about  them  the  jealousies  of  the  world. 
Perhaps  it  is  not  well  that  a  kingdom  should  have 
too  good  a  King.  To  be  a  victor  in  the  strife,  a  man 
with  man's  sins  and  failings  is  necessary.  You  are 
like  the  young  man,  very  rich,  whom  my  Master 
bade  sell  all  that  he  had.  You  would  go  away  sor- 
rowfully, for  you  have  great  possessions." 

"Nay,"  said  the  King,  "let  the  Kingdom  abide  in 
the  hands  of  its  rulers.  I  shall  stay.  I  am  content 
to  be  your  servant." 

"Italy,  this  land  which  is  yours  by  birth,  mine  by 
adoption,  must  not  fall  back  into  anarchy.  Province 
must  not  fight  against  state.  The  stranger  from  the 
North  must  not  again  come  in.  The  old  hatreds 
remain,  you  say,  ready  to  break  out.  Well,  those  I 
shall  cure.  But  this  shall  not  be  by  might,  nor  the 
device  of  man's  hand.  We  shall  do  more  by  the 
spirit  of  God  speaking  to  the  spirit  of  man. 

"Listen,  this  is  what  they  told  me  in  the  Vatican — 


200       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

5''es,  even  by  the  mouth  of  Terni  yonder,  now  one  of 
us.  I  should  discourage  and  wound  to  the  death  one 
hundred  and  sixty  milhons  of  the  Faithful  if  I  re- 
fused to  tread  the  beaten  way  of  all  my  predecessors. 
I  should  break  the  hearts  of  faithful  humble  priests 
in  remote  parishes.  I  should  shake  the  beliefs  of 
innocent  and  loyal  women  and  children.  I  should 
make  to  rejoice  everywhere  in  all  places  the  hostile 
civil  powers.  And  why?  If  I,  Christopher  the  First, 
successor  of  Peter,  duly  elected  and  crowned,  did  not 
bless  the  crowds  of  pilgrims — if  I  refused  to  be  car- 
ried in  high  curule  chair  in  splendid  pageants, 
throned  like  a  god,  if  I  failed  to  receive  and  dismiss 
ambassadors,  issue  bulls  and  manifestoes,  and  assert 
my  place  as  chief  arbiter  in  the  affairs  of  the  na- 
tions! 

"But  behind  all  this,  even  as  Terni  spake,  and  he 
spoke  well,  I  saw  One  born  in  the  House  of  Bread, 
Beth-lehem  of  Juda,  cradled  on  an  ass's  back  in  the 
desert,  then  a  thoughtful  young  man  labouring  with 
His  hands  in  a  hill  village  of  Galilee.  Certainly  He 
knew  nothing  of  such  great  doings.  The  disciple  is 
not  greater  than  his  master.  So  then,  neither  should 
I  know  aught  of  them ! 

"Man  clings  to  the  Symbol  of  crossed  wood  which 
man  made.  The  Christ  must  again  be  set  in  His 
place.  With  the  Symbol  came  the  Israelitish  altars 
of  sacrifice,  the  incense,  the  pomps  and  the  vanities 
— Madonnas  clad  in  Blue  and  transfixed  Sacred 
Hearts.  The  Mahommedans  are  wiser.  They  cry  to 
God  into  the  great  empty  vault  of  heaven.    But  our 


THE  PURSUIT  201 

Italian  successors  of  the  faithful  became  greater 
than  Roman  emperors.  With  flaunting  scarves  of 
Ashtaroth  they  clad  themselves  in  the  gold  and  pur- 
ple of  Tyre.  The  flash  of  diamonds,  the  radiance  of 
pearl  bedizened  every  image  of  the  woman  to  whom 
He  said,  'What  have  I  to  do  with  thee?' " 

"Oh,"  said  the  King,  "I  begin  to  understand. 
Hitherto  I  have  only  followed  afar  off." 

"You  shall  see  yet  more  and  better,  for  the  glitter 
of  the  earthly  is  still  in  your  eyes." 

A  joyful  new  light  came  into  the  White  Pope's 
face — the  first  assurance  of  the  things  which  were 
yet  to  be. 

"Yes,"  he  cried,  "Christ  died.  His  spirit  rises 
again  on  a  redeemed  world.  We  shall  bury  the 
Symbol.  We  shall  raise  the  Man.  He  shall  reign 
in  your  heart,  Lord  of  Italy  and  Servant  of  Peace ! " 

The  King  tottered  and  recovered  himself.  The 
right  hand  of  the  Pope  was  outstretched  towards 
him.  And  I,  Lucas  Cargill,  bear  witness  that  I  saw 
something  resembling  pale  lightning  pass  between 
them  and  illumine  the  King's  face — like  the  flicker 
which  runs  before  a  footstep  on  wet  tidal  sand  it 
was. 

And  lo !  he  fell  prone  without  a  word.  His  attend- 
ants rushed  in  from  all  sides,  the  officers  of  the 
Trombetta  as  well.  Revolvers  were  pressed  to  the 
temples  of  the  White  Pope — to  mine  as  well. 

They  thought  we  had  slain  their  monarch,  these 
poor  ignorant  Praetorians  to  whom  all  they  saw 
must  have  been  the  verj--  mystery  of  mysteries. 


202       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

The  White  Pope  motioned  them  aside  with  the 
slightest  wave  of  his  hand — ahnost  as  if  he  blessed, 
yet  so  imperious  that  all  obeyed. 

"Your  King  is  not  dead,"  he  said.  "Presently  he 
will  come  forth  from  his  tomb.  I  have  but  loosened 
the  grave  clothes  about  him.    That  is  all!" 


CHAPTER  XXIII:     THE  CONCLAVE 

To  all  this  Temi  had  listened,  his  face  never  be- 
traying the  secrets  of  his  soul.  He  took  small  inter- 
est in  the  King's  lesson.  His  mind  was  busy  with 
what  was  to  come,  the  appearance  of  the  White 
Pope  before  the  Curia  in  the  council  chamber  of  the 
Vatican. 

He  had  cause  to  be  anxious.  The  Pope  had  been 
condemned  by  the  Princes  of  the  Church.  The 
papal  chair  was  within  measurable  distance  of  being 
declared  vacant,  and  the  name  of  Christopher  I. 
expunged  from  the  rolls  of  the  Papacy.  Salviati 
was  more  active  than  ever  and  this  time  he  had  the 
great  majority  behind  him. 

Temi  did  not  waver.  He  had  been  built  of  other 
stuff,  and  he  would  stand  by  the  Holy  Father  even 
should  they  slay  him.  But  he  knew  it  would  be 
difficult  and  a  perilous  hour.  His  faith  in  the 
wonder-worker  was  still  new.  He  had  seen  but  a 
little  part  of  what  I  had  witnessed  and  could  not 
be  expected  to  have  my  faith. 

We  were  passing  through  the  short  roaring  tun- 
nels on  the  railway  south  of  Spezia  when  we  became 
conscious  of  the  dull  reverberation  of  heavy  guns. 
The  English  battleships  had  come  up — perhaps  the 
French  also,  and  were  bombarding  the  naval  port  of 


204*       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

Spezia,  or,  as  the  officers  on  board  had  thought  more 
probable,  the  great  seaport  of  Leghorn  close  by  to 
the  south. 

To  us  it  now  mattered  little  which.  The  long  line 
of  the  seaboard  was  open  to  the  enemy,  protected 
only  by  the  promise  of  the  White  Pope.  But  we 
had  found  this  enough  for  ourselves  and  we  doubted 
not  that  it  would  amply  suffice  for  Italy.  The  train 
carried  us  forward.  The  King  had  ordered  all  traffic 
in  the  direction  of  Rome  to  be  stopped,  so  that  our 
single  car  and  swift  engine  went  through  without 
stopping  except  at  some  wayside  station  to  take  in 
water.  It  was  necessary  that  the  scenes  of  Marseilles 
should  not  be  re-enacted  at  home. 

Within  those  Holy  Walls  the  Quirinal  and  the 
Vatican  had  never  stood  so  close  together. 

I  noticed  that  the  King  and  Temi  talked  much 
apart,  and  I  judged  that  they  were  arranging  that 
Brother  Christopher  should  not  enter  unsupported 
into  the  wasp's  nest  of  his  enemies. 

"I  will  lead  them  myself,"  I  heard  the  King  say, 
"and  if  need  be " 

"The  need  will  not  be,"  said  Terni,  "he  is  stronger 
than  all  of  them.  Still,  there  is  no  harm  in  being 
ready." 

At  the  Roman  station  were  several  carriages  with- 
out armorial  bearings  or  liveried  domestics.  But 
from  their  bearing  and  the  manner  in  which  they 
received  us,  they  plainly  belonged  to  the  Royal 
house. 

Young  Baratieri  was  ordered  to  arrange  for  the 


THE  CONCLAVE  «05 

comfort  of  our  party  while  in  Rome.  The  King  gave 
private  orders  to  General  Cipriano  in  writing,  which 
as  I  judged  contained  what  he  and  Terni  had  ar- 
ranged for  the  safety  of  the  Pope  within  his  most 
dangerous  palace  of  the  Vatican.  As  for  me  I 
awaited  orders. 

The  White  Pope  beckoned  to  me  and  I  followed. 
We  went  across  great  halls  floored  with  white  marble 
slabs,  and  the  dull  rich  glow  of  mosaics — through 
corridors  long  as  in  a  nightmare,  statue-flanked  and 
dwindling  into  pin-points  of  gloom. 

The  tall  figure  of  Terni  followed  closely,  over- 
shadowing the  frail  grace  of  the  White  Pope.  Every- 
where there  was  a  nerve-shaking  silence.  Servitors 
and  waiting  men  seemed  to  have  been  withdrawn. 
Yet  somehow  I  do  not  think  any  of  us  were  afraid. 
For  me  I  know  I  was  not.  I  had  seen  the  fire  pass, 
like  summer  lightning  pulsing  over  a  still  sea,  when 
Brother  Christopher  stretched  out  his  hand  towards 
Terni. 

We  were  going  to  the  Rotunda  of  the  Conclave. 

The  meaning  of  that  was  clear.  The  place  was 
used  only  when  the  Pope  was  dead  and  the  cardinals 
were  collected  together  to  choose  another. 

To  those  who  were  gathered  here  Pope  Chris- 
topher was  dead,  and  the  conclave  of  the  cardinals 
was  engaged  in  voting  for  a  successor.  From  their 
standpoint  who  can  blame  them? 

The  chair  of  St.  Peter  was  empty.  The  voice  of 
a  living  Pope  no  longer  conveyed  to  the  faithful  the 


206       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

will  of  Rome — the  erring  were  not  admonished,  the 
unrepentant  were  not  excommunicated,  the  thou- 
sand details  of  the  routine  of  the  great  ecclesiatical 
hive  were  thrown  out  of  gear  because  the  Church 
had  no  visible  head. 

Long  and  deeply  had  the  cardinals  conferred. 
They  had  searched  precedents  and  found  none  to  fit 
this  case.  This  rebel  was  Pope.  There  was  no  get- 
ting out  of  that.  They  could  not  treat  him  as  insane. 
Their  own  dearest  doctrine  of  his  infallibility 
blocked  the  way.  To  consider  him  as  dead  and  to 
stigmatise  the  appearances  of  the  man  calling  him- 
self the  White  Pope  as  those  of  an  impostor  seemed 
the  only  plan.  There  was,  of  course,  the  risk  of  a 
great  schism,  but  that  they  must  take  the  risk  of. 

I  think  most  of  us  would  willingly  have  stayed  a 
moment  at  the  door  of  that  hall  of  solemn  assembly. 
But  without  a  moment's  hesitation  the  White  Pope 
set  his  hand  against  the  padded  door.  It  swung 
lightly  and  easily  inward,  and  lo!  we  saw  the  sight 
which  no  man  may  see  unless  he  be  a  scarlet  card- 
inal and  a  prince  of  Holy  Church,  the  deliberation 
of  the  sacred  college  when  it  names  the  new  head  of 
the  Church. 

I  felt  the  shame  of  the  intrusion  as  the  first  Goth 
must  have  done  who  burst  into  the  senate  chamber 
of  Rome.  The  white  and  shining  heads,  the  patient 
cloistered  expressions,  the  few  bearded  missioners, 
and  the  atmosphere  of  a  peace  not  of  this  world, 
with  the  light  sifting  softly  from  above,  and  the 
aged  motionless  figures  seated  beneath,  each  in  his 


THE  CONCLAVE  207 

own  niche,  made  my  heart  as  water  within  me. 

But  the  White  Pope  and  Terni  were  not  affected. 
They  were  as  if  at  home.  Through  the  glamour  of 
the  wide  rotunda,  gold  above  and  shadowy  purple 
beneath,  could  be  seen  a  white  throne,  as  if  carved 
in  ivory  and  gold,  as  indeed  it  was,  the  cunning  work 
of  long  dead  artificers. 

This  shining  seat  was  raised  up  on  a  platform 
and  over  it  hung  a  canopy  also  of  white  and  gold. 
Long  had  it  been  famous  over  the  world  as  the  Chair 
of  Peter,  though  all  knew  that  its  date  was  much 
more  recent;  stiU  it  was  the  Pope's  chair  and  it  was 
vacant. 

The  brethren  of  the  Scarlet  Robe  were  met  here 
to  designate  one  of  themselves  to  fill  it,  but  still  it 
stood  empty  waiting  for  the  Chosen. 

I  think  most  of  the  cardinals  were  old  and  deaf, 
for  not  a  head  was  turned  in  our  direction,  and  no 
one  among  us  spoke. 

I  stood  still  on  the  vantage  ground  of  the  upper 
tier  on  which  the  door  had  opened.  But  the  White 
Pope  did  not  hesitate  a  moment.  It  seemed  as  if 
he  had  not  walked  to  the  ivory  curule  chair,  but  had 
merely  passed  thither  as  a  shaft  of  light  might  pass. 
He  seated  himself  within  it,  his  white  robes  mingling 
mysteriously  with  the  ivory  of  the  back  and  arms, 
and  his  hair  like  a  light  aureole  about  his  head. 

The  whole  assembly  rose  as  one  man  at  the  sight> 
It  must  have  seemed  like  magic  to  them.  There 
was  unbelief  in  the  cry.  Some  put  their  hands  be- 
fore their  eyes  lest  they  should  be  blasted  by  a 


208       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

portent  of  Satan.  Many  crossed  themselves  fer- 
vently, and  the  younger  men  of  them  made  a  move- 
ment forward  as  if  to  resist  by  the  arm  of  flesh. 

But  behind  the  chair  towered  the  grim  dark  figure 
of  Terni — Terni,  their  master — Terni  their  mes- 
senger, now  come  back  to  them.  On  the  other  side 
their  astonished  gaze  met  the  face  and  figure  of  the 
last  man  they  had  expected  to  see  in  the  sacred  hall 
of  their  assembly — Albert  Emmanuel,  the  young 
King  of  Italy. 

The  old  men  like  Salviati  stood  swaying  and 
pointing  with  vain  uncertain  fingers.  A  few  middle- 
aged  vociferated  against  the  intrusion,  and  the 
younger  men  who  sat  furthest  from  the  ivory  chair 
and  the  white  gracious  figure  seated  in  it  called  out 
"No  Pope — no  Pope — no  Pope!" 

But  it  was  rather  in  schoolboy  fashion  and  with- 
out conviction  that  they  spoke,  one  encouraging  the 
other.  They  were  conscious  of  the  dark  eyes  of 
Terni,  of  the  persistent  shining  upon  the  face  of  the 
man  whom  they  themselves  had  sanctified  Pope. 

There  followed  a  tranced  stillness,  so  still  indeed 
as  to  become  almost  painful,  so  that  I  was  grateful 
when  the  harsh  voice  of  Terni  broke  the  silence  as 
a  flint  stone  breaks  a  glass. 

"Ye  sent  me  to  bring  back  your  Holy  Father. 
There  he  is.  He  sits  in  Peter's  chair  in  which  your- 
selves placed  him." 

He  let  this  sink  in  and  then  after  the  pause  had 
endured  long  enough  he  added,  "I  proclaim  myself 
his  servant.    Do  you  the  like!" 


THE  CONCLAVE  209 

Then  there  was  a  turmoil  indeed.  Angry  voices 
proclaimed  Terni  a  traitor,  a  renegade,  false  to  the 
Church.  Excommunication,  suspension,  even  death 
were  threatened.  Terni  only  smiled.  He  even  mod- 
ulated his  voice  to  reply,  so  that  he  spoke  with  an 
unwonted  gentleness  which  somehow  seemed  more 
threatening  than  his  former  angers  and  ironies. 

"The  Pope  is  in  his  chair.  Make  your  obeisance!" 
And  as  if  to  show  an  example,  he  kneeled  and  be- 
sought a  blessing.  The  white  figure  in  the  ivory 
chair  moved  a  hand  in  benediction,  but  it  was  auto- 
matically. I  was  sure  that  he  was  not  thinking  of 
Terni,  but  of  the  poor  men  before  him  whose  eyes 
were  shut  to  the  light.  They  were  to  him  his  chil- 
dren, pitiful  as  Priest  Vergas  in  his  first  angers  or 
the  bishop  and  clergy  of  Marseilles  when  they  went 
sadly  away  with  empty  hearts. 

He  waved  a  hand,  and  his  voice  clear  and  resonant 
as  a  silver  bell  penetrated  and  stilled  the  hubbub. 
But  he  did  not  rise. 

"Fathers  and  princes  of  the  Church,"  he  said,  "so 
for  the  last  time  I  call  you,  take  your  seats  and 
listen.  I  am  your  Pope.  I  command.  I  am  not 
dead.    I  live  with  a  new  life.    It  is  for  you  to  obey ! " 

He  paused,  and  I  heard  Terni's  whisper  come 
horsely  across  the  benches,  "And  I  shall  see  to  it 
that  ye  do  obey!" 

"I  know  what  was  in  your  minds  and  I  forgive. 
Because  now  when  ye  see  me  your  minds  shall  be 
opened.  Perhaps  I  was  wrong,  I  ought  first  of  all 
to  have  taken  you  into  my  confidence.    But  I  was 


210       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

not  then  Bure  of  my  power,  nor  had  the  fuhiess  of 
my  mission  revealed  itself  to  me.  Neither  you  nor 
I  were  ready  and  so  I  went  forth  alone,  my  way 
indeed  clear  before  me  but,  as  I  saw  it  then,  a  lonely 
way.  Not  so  had  Our  Father  arranged  it.  From 
the  first  I  found  disciples.  I  had  but  to  call  them. 
Nay,  without  calling,  they  clamoured  about  my  feet. 
Here  with  me  are  three.  Temi,  one  of  yourselves, 
the  King  Emmanuel  whom  ye  have  called  your 
enemy,  and  a  young  man  of  strange  northern  race, 
who  was  my  first  helper.  Nay,  do  not  move.  His 
presence  does  not  profane  this  assembly.  This  is  no 
Curia  to  elect  a  Pope  because  your  Pope  is  here, 
seated  in  his  chair,  speaking  the  words  which  must 
be  obeyed " 

"Aye,  and  they  shall  be!"  boomed  Temi  from 
behind,  threatening  as  a  thundercloud.  The  White 
Pope  checked  him  with  a  movement  of  his  hand, 
visible  only  to  me.  He  had  often  restrained  Mary 
Orloff  in  the  same  fashion. 

He  rose  suddenly  and  lifted  his  hands  high. 

"Let  those  who  desire  the  blessing — kneel,"  he 
cried,  and  his  eyes,  jetting  soft  fire,  were  upon  them. 

"Aye,  kneel,  ye  stiff-necked!"  grated  Terni,  "God's 
day  of  mercy  shall  not  last." 

They  made  a  brave  fight  for  it,  especially  Salviati 
and  the  elders  of  them. 

"No  Pope  of  ours!"  cried  Salviati,  "a  true  Pope 
breaks  not  the  law — forsakes  not  the  traditions  of 
Holy  Church!" 

"Ye  have  made  the  Nazarene  of  none  effect  with 


THE  CONCLAVE  211 

your  traditions,"  croaked  Terni,  "listen  to  Him. 
Bow  the  knee.    Bow  the  knee!" 

"The  guards — call  the  guards,"  vociferated  Sal- 
viati. 

"The  guards  are  the  Pope's  guards — not  yours," 
Terni  answered,  "and  if  they  would  turn  against 
him  and  lay  hand  on  their  master — go  to  the  win- 
dow and  look  out." 

Salviati  and  some  of  the  younger  cardinals  left 
their  places  and  looked.  As  for  me  I  could  see  from 
where  I  stood.  The  great  place  of  Saint  Peter  and 
all  the  cincture  of  the  Vatican  were  filled  with  troops 
— foot,  horse  and  artillery.  Ranged  in  order  they 
stood,  keeping  station,  not  an  Italian  flag  to  be  seen 
anywhere,  but  the  banner  of  the  White  Pope  dis- 
played for  the  first  time,  pure  white,  a  star  in  the 
midst  surrounded  by  an  aureole  both  in  gold. 

"Brethren,"  said  Salviati,  turning  to  the  conclave, 
"we  are  coerced.  The  troops  of  Savoy  are  all  about 
us." 

"Not  so,"  said  Terni,  "His  troops — not  the  King's. 
Kneel  and  do  homage,  ye  hard  of  heart!" 

"Look  at  me,"  said  the  White  Pope.  And  most 
unwillingly  they  looked.  I  had  seen  it  before,  but 
not  en  masse.  A  virtue  went  forth  from  him,  quite 
visible,  at  least  to  my  eye,  now  fully  educated  in 
such  matters. 

His  figure  seemed  to  wax  and  wane.  My  very 
heart  went  to  water  within  me.  God  knows  why, 
for  I  had  no  need  to  feel  what  these  men  of  the 
Sacred  College  w^e  feeling.    One  by  one  fchey  fell 


212       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

on  their  knees,  looking  at  the  White  Pope  with 
changed  wondering  eyes.  Only  Salviati  stood  erect, 
defiance  on  his  countenance.  Terni,  who  could  not 
see  the  face  of  the  White  Pope  would,  I  think,  have 
gladly  slain  him  for  there  were  comers  and  outliers 
in  Terni's  nature  still  wholly  unregenerate. 

But  the  White  Pope  said,  "Come  hither,  my 
brother!"  and  Salviati  moved  forward  woodenly. 
He  was  at  the  very  foot  of  the  ivory  throne  when 
I  saw  him  falter.  He  had  suddenly  knelt  on  both 
knees  and  kissed  a  carefully  mended  hem  of  the 
Pope's  worn  raiment.  Yet  I  knew  well  that  the  man 
was  not  fully  conquered. 

"It  is  enough,"  said  the  Pope,  "to-morrow  I  shall 
set  you  to  dig  in  my  Father's  vineyard." 

I  saw  no  more.  The  gold  and  purple  hall  swam 
about  me,  the  incensed  air,  the  kneeling  men  in 
scarlet  and  the  single  figure  in  white  blessing  them, 
melted  away.  Somehow  I  found  myself  outside  be- 
ing helped  to  a  glass  of  water  by  a  gentleman  of 
the  guard.  The  yard  of  St.  Peter's  was  empty  of 
troops,  and  over  all  brooded  a  diffused  light,  mildly 
radiant,  and  in  the  long  corridors  there  was  a  Sab- 
bath silence. 


CHAPTER  XXIV:     THE  ROMAN  PLEBS 

By  and  by  it  was  borne  on  me  that  I  must  go  to 
the  Quirinal  to  enquire  as  to  the  fate  of  my  com- 
panions. The  chief  of  the  Vatican  diplomatic  staff 
could  tell  me  nothing.  He  did  what  he  could,  that 
quietly  dressed,  precise,  kindly  old  gentleman.  He 
was  eager  to  know  what  was  happening  and  I  tried 
to  tell  him,  but  Terni  came  by  and  from  the  face 
of  that  man  of  power  he  shrank. 

'Tf  he  had  spoken  to  me,  I  should  have  sunk  to 
the  ground,"  he  said. 

The  leaven  was  working,  but  in  each  it 'worked 
differently,  and  Terni's  nature  was  not  one  which 
lent  itself  to  any  soft  unif(5rmity.  The  glow  was  on 
his  face,  but  it  was  such  a  glow  as  that  which  shone 
from  the  features  of  Michael  ihe  archangel  when 
pursuing  Lucifer.  I  saw  clearly  that  so  long  as  the 
new  kingdom  of  the  White  Pope  needed  a  sword, 
Terni  would  be  that  sword — not  Cipriani  or  another. 

"The  soldiers  are  waiting  outside  to  admit  the 
people  one  by  one,"  said  the  Major-domo,  when  he 
had  recovered  from  the  shock  of  Terni's  passage. 
"They  have  come  to  see  the  Pope— not  a  few,  not 
one  here  and  there,  but  all  Rome!" 

"All  Rome!"  he  added  as  if  to  himself,  for  he 

213 


214       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

had  not  got  over  his  wonder  at  the  events  of  the 
day,  which  is  noways  surprising. 

And  through  the  open  windows  came  to  my  ears 
the  dull  roar  of  multitudes.  Rome  stirred  with  the 
promise  of  the  White  Pope.  She  had  feared  that 
some  other  city  might  steal  her  glory.  For  what- 
ever the  cardinals  might  imagine,  Rome  knew  that 
a  properly  elected  and  enthroned  pontiff  could  not 
be  removed  except  by  death.  So  down  the  wide 
dusty  Via  Nationale  they  poured,  thirsty  for  news. 
Mob  orators  shouted  and  gesticulated  in  the  open 
spaces  about  St.  Angelo. 

It  was  not  the  first  time  we  had  heard  the  roar 
of  an  excited  populace,  but  there  was  a  different 
note  in  this  from  any  we  had  encountered.  It  came 
in  bursts,  fitfully,  like  ewes  and  lambs  calling  to 
each  other  from  hillside  to  hillside.  The  White 
Pope  remained  calm  as  ever,  his  characteristic  quiet 
smile  playing  about  his  mouth. 

Terni  fumed  and  fretted,  flitting  here  and  there, 
firm  but  very  haughty.  He  had  the  vehement  air 
of  a  man  justly  indignant  in  his  own  house.  He 
had  come  to  the  side  of  the  Servant,  it  is  true,  but 
he  had  no  idea  of  hiding  his  light  under  a  bushel. 
He  was  neither  easy  nor  resigned,  a  vivid,  self-sac- 
rificing, energetic  man — much  I  think  like  Paul,  the 
apostle  of  the  Gentiles — acting  swiftly  himself,  and 
making  act  tread  hard  on  the  heels  of  intention,  he 
wanted  everything  done  at  once.  So  it  seemed  to 
me  that  he  took  ill  the  spiritual  trances  and  with- 
drawals of  the  White  Pope,  when  everything  seemed 


THE  ROMAN  PLEBS  215 

to  pause  about  him  till  he  had  finished  communing 
with  his  own  spirit. 

Apart  from  his  present  zeal  for  our  cause,  there 
was  something  truculent,  almost  Torquemada-ish 
about  Terni.  His  rough-hewn  face  contrasted  with 
the  gentle  ascetic  scholarly  look  which  the  discipline 
of  Rome  sets  on  her  highest  and  finest  souls.  The 
White  Pope  had  broken  the  tradition.  He  had  lived 
in  strange  lands  and  dwelt  in  the  purple  East,  yet 
he  had  that  look  in  a  supreme  degree.  The  babe 
whom  Mary  Orloff  had  found  wandering  on  Zion 
had  been  pruned,  and  delved  about,  and  instructed 
how  to  grow.  So  now  we  stood  under  the  tree,  and 
its  leaves  were  for  the  healing  of  the  nations. 

The  White  Pope  has  been  much  misunderstood. 
He  was  no  violent  iconoclast,  no  breaker-down  of 
ancient  wholesome  traditions.  He  had  a  conscience 
and  an  aim.  He  went  straight  before  him,  using  all 
his  wondrous  gifts  and  in  the  utmost  simplicity,  call- 
ing all  men  to  him.  Women  he  did  not  need  to  call. 
They  came  of  themselves,  so  willingly  indeed,  that 
only  Mary  Orloff  could  keep  them  at  a  proper  dis- 
tance. 

He  turned  to  the  King,  smiling  gently  as  if  all 
things  about  him  were  of  the  most  commonplace. 

"Let  the  people  see  me,"  he  said,  "the  soldiers  are 
keeping  them  back." 

"I  will  send  word  to  Cipriano.  We  judged  it  best, 
Holy  Father,  that  the  people  should  not  enter. 
They  are  hot-headed,  these  Romans,  but  the  Quiri- 


216       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

nal  is  a  little  yesterday's  matter  to  them  beside  the 
Pope  and  the  Vatican." 

Indeed  the  people  could  not  be  passed  in  one  by 
one.  That  would  have  taken  all  day.  The  dam 
gates  were  opened,  and  they  came  full  flood,  the 
clatter  of  their  shod  feet  falling  sharp  on  the  vast 
pavements  in  front  of  St.  Peter's. 

Five  minutes  afterwards  he  was  out  on  the  bal- 
cony from  which  he  had  been  proclaimed.  A  little 
way  behind  stood  the  King  and  Temi,  then  in  a 
dim  scarlet  cloud  the  full  college  of  the  cardinals. 

He  raised  his  hand.  Hush,  he  is  going  to  speak! 
I  looked  abroad — such  a  multitude,  so  great  a  sea 
of  faces!  The  speech  of  no  man  could  hope  to  reach 
them  all.  But  I  had  forgotten,  yes,  even  I  who  had 
been  with  him  on  the  hill  of  St.  Marie  de  la  Garde. 
I  heard  uplifted  the  timbre  of  that  marvellous  voice 
and  lo!  it  came  to  me  fresh  and  new,  as  if  I  had 
never  heard  it  before.  The  sense  did  not  penetrate 
for  a  long  minute.  I  was  like  a  man  entering  the 
Cathedral  of  Freburg  in  full  service  time  and  being 
conscious  only  of  the  glorious  sound  of  the  "vox 
humana"  stop  singing  away  like  a  celestial  lark  be- 
tween earth  and  heaven. 

I  caught  phrases  only — "People  of  Rome,  you 
must  retrograde  upon  the  old  righteousness."  .  .  . 
"Because  ye  have  been  greatly  exalted,  much  is  re- 
quired of  you."  .  .  .  "Lords  spiritual  and  lords  tem- 
poral shall  avail  you  nothing,  but  because  of  your 
privileges,  responsibility  remains  with  you." 

Presently  I  caught  more  clearly  the  drift  of  his 


THE  ROMAN  PLEBS  217 

reasoning.  He  was  telling  them  that  he  could  not 
be  always  with  them.  The  Spiritual  Zion  was  not 
on  the  Vatican  hill.  But  they  of  Rome  should  have 
the  first  place  in  his  thoughts  and  prayers.  Good 
and  faithful  men  should  instruct  them  in  the  new 
way. 

"I  am  told,"  he  said,  "that  in  Italy  there  are 
many  men  in  high  authority  who  are  Gallios  caring 
for  none  of  those  things.  But  Gallio  has  been  much 
belied,  Gallio  is  no  false  friend,  no  sculker  behind 
backs.  I  ask  his  permission  to  go  abroad  and  preach. 
It  is  granted  and  I  am  free  of  his  kingdom  and  prov- 
ince. He  is  neither  officious  nor  unfriendly.  He 
holds  himself  aloof,  but  the  missionary  is  at  home 
in  Gallio's  country.  Gallio  keeps  the  King's  peace 
and  so  the  preacher  goes  his  way,  none  daring  to 
make  him  afraid. 

"Ye  men  of  Rome,  ye  must  wait  for  the  strange 
last  things.  Words  cannot  move  you.  Ye  have 
heard  thirty  centuries  of  them  and  have  lost  the 
power  to  discriminate.  The  Word  and  the  Way  are 
become  as  the  hum  of  bees  among  the  summer  lime 
trees.  They  only  make  you  drowsy.  But  the  won- 
derful changes  will  come.  Refuse  them  not  when 
they  are  among  you.  And  when  on  an  afternoon 
slumbrous  with  heat,  ye  find  on  some  village  green 
one  of  your  greatest  preaching  a  New  Evangel  to 
the  peasants  and  poor  folk,  do  not  pass  by,  hasty  or 
ashamed.  That  is  the  Spirit  striving  with  your  spirit. 
Be  your  heart  crowded  or  tenantless — dwelt  in  by 
seven  devils  or  empty,  swept  and  garnished,  the 


218       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

Kingdom  of  God  is  ready  to  dwell  within  you. 
When  ye  have  sinned  ignorantly,  there  is  no  sin. 
This  is  the  way  of  Grace — the  way  of  the  Medi- 
ator!" 

Ho  ceased  as  suddenly  as  he  had  begun.  The 
great  assembly  stood  waiting  for  more.  They  knew 
not  what  they  wanted,  but  in  their  present  frame 
of  mind,  perhaps  only  some  great  miracle  would 
have  satisfied  them.  If  St.  Peter's  from  floor  to 
dome,  pillars  and  architrave  had  risen  and  van- 
ished into  the  blue  of  heaven,  they  might  have  been 
satisfied. 

But  not  with  mere  words,  though  one  spoke  to 
them  from  heaven.  They  wanted  something  more 
tangible,  and  though  that  night  they  went  home 
angry  and  disappointed,  they  had  not  long  to  wait. 


CHAPTER  XXV:    THE  GREAT  DISAP- 
PEARING 

A  TIME  of  remarkable  uncertainty  began  through- 
out all  the  world.  No  man  could  be  sure  of  finding 
himself  in  his  place  on  the  morrow.  The  English 
parliament  met,  but  the  seats  of  the  leaders  on  one 
side  and  the  other  were  unfilled.  Italy  was  with- 
out a  king,  but  a  document  was  found  duly  wit- 
nessed, passing  on  the  government  to  the  Crown 
Prince.  The  Vatican  was  still  a  hive  of  industry, 
and  obsequious  secretaries  hastened  between  heads 
of  departments.  But  Terni,  the  moving  spirit,  be- 
fore whom  all  trembled,  was  gone,  and  at  the  door 
of  the  Pope's  rooms  an  officer  on  guard  stopped  all 
intruders.  The  Pope  did  not  wish  to  be  disturbed, 
he  said. 

But  all  the  Vatican  and  soon  all  Rome  knew  that 
he  was  not  there.  He  had  been  the  first  to  vanish. 
There  were  whispers  of  fast  speeding  craft  which 
stole  out  from  Civita  Vecchia  and  Ostia  under  cloud 
of  night,  heading  south  always  as  for  Capri  or  Sicily. 
But  nothing  definite  could  be  proved.  From  Eng- 
land and  America,  from  Germany  and  Norway,  from 
all  the  Latin  countries  arrived  the  same  tale,  told 
sometimes  jestingly,  but  always  with  a  basis  of  se- 
riousness and  with  astonishingly  few  local  varia- 
tions. 

219 


220       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

Chiefs  of  great  state  departments  were  missing, 
some  soldiers  (among  whom  was  an  English  com- 
mander-in-chief recently  appointed  to  carry  out  dic- 
tatorially  a  vast  military  reform  which  included  the 
sweeping  out  of  the  Horse  Guards),  many  sailors, 
doctors,  and  surgeons.  With  them  a  good  many 
ministers  of  religion,  one  prelate  (not  of  any  high 
distinction)  had  passed  from  the  ken  of  men.  Curi- 
ously enough  the  families  of  these  men  were  not 
greatly  unquiet  about  them,  though  nothing  definite 
could  be  gathered  from  the  inaccurate  and  often 
consternated  reports  of  daily  journals. 

No  lawyers  were  missing,  so  most  cabinets  were 
able  to  rule  as  before. 

Among  the  peoples  there  were  curious  unexpected 
movements.  As  if  obeying  some  strange  impulse, 
the  Turks  began  to  stream  out  of  Constantinople 
and  seek  the  Asiatic  shores,  keeping  chiefly  to  Ana- 
tolia and  the  north-west  corner  of  Asia  Minor.  They 
left  all  Syria  south  of  Damascus  free  of  their  pres- 
ence. There  were  revolts  in  Anatolia  and  Smjma, 
but  there  as  in  Damascus  itself  the  clamour  was 
mysteriously  stilled.  The  receding  Turks  seemed 
rich  all  of  a  sudden,  and  more  wonderful  still,  they 
were  eager  to  become  town  dwellers  and  folk  of 
peace.  There  was  not  a  pasha  between  Beirut  and 
the  Persian  Gulf. 

What  seemed  clear  was  that  some  immense  finan- 
cial organization,  possibly  Jewish,  had  bought  Pales- 
tine from  end  to  end,  expropriating  every  landholder 


THE  GREAT  DISAPPEARING  221 

of  whatever  nationality  or  religion.  The  Holy 
Land  was  a  clean  slate  for  the  New  Evangel. 

Other  signs  of  an  immense  activity  began  to  show 
themselves.  Workmen  swarmed  along  all  the  routes 
going  in  the  direction  of  the  sandy  coasts  of  Syria 
and  Philistia.  The  vessels  which  brought  them  did 
not  return  empty,  but  laden  with  the  late  dwellers 
in  the  land,  the  cultivators,  the  merchants,  the 
middlemen  and  money-lenders.  With  the  money 
for  their  compensation  in  their  pockets,  they  flocked 
to  Alexandria.  They  overflowed  the  newly-won 
lands  on  the  verge  of  the  Nile  delta,  where  they 
bought  ground  and  settled  down  under  a  sure  rule. 

When  enough  navvies  (chiefly  from  Italy  and 
Spain)  had  been  gathered,  the  railway  from  Jerusa- 
lem to  Jaffa  was  doubled  and  quadrupled. 

Reports  began  to  arrive  of  vast  terracing  opera- 
tions, of  replanting,  soil  spreading,  artificial  pegging 
down  of  the  scarce  solidified  earth.  There  was  but 
one  explanation  of  all  this.  The  Jews,  it  was  evi- 
dent, had  finally  put  their  wealth  together.  They 
had  taken  advantage  of  the  exceeding  need  of  Tur- 
key and  were  determined  to  make  their  ancient  land 
once  more  the  wonder  of  the  nations. 

What  was  still  more  diflacult  to  understand  was 
that  Press  boats  fitted  with  Marconi  apparatus, 
trying  to  break  their  way  in  to  report,  found  the 
Levant  coast  guarded  by  squadrons  of  unknown 
cruisers,  flying  no  known  national  ensign  but  all 
uniformly  painted  white.  These,  in  long  succession, 
kept  up  a  ceaseless  beat  from  Alexandria  to  Smyrna, 


222       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

isolating  all  that  was  going  on  behind  the  sandy 
Palestinian  coastline,  and  only  permitting  the  ordi- 
nary mercantile  traffic  for  the  East  by  way  of  the 
Suez  Canal,  after  being  carefully  checked,  to  pro- 
ceed on  its  way. 

Power  after  power  sent  thither  portions  of  its 
fleets,  but  of  these  not  a  ship  returned.  Yet  there 
was  no  news  of  any  naval  action,  nor  any  great  in- 
ternational catastrophe.  It  was  whispered,  how- 
ever, that  the  British  battle  ship  Agamemnon,  re- 
painted  but  quite  recognisable  by  her  funnels  and 
guns,  had  been  discerned  behind  the  guarding  line 
of  cruisers.  She  had  been  sent  specially  by  the  Ad- 
miralty to  report  on  the  doings  in  the  Levant  and 
her  Marconigraph  messages  were  eagerly  and  curi- 
ously awaited. 


if 


CHAPTER  XXVI:     THE  NEW  PALESTINE 

One  day  early  in  September  my  companions  and 
I  were  summoned  to  go  to  Jerusalem,  and  we  went. 
The  passage  of  the  White  Fleet  was  not  easy  to 
negotiate.  Very  impressive  it  was  to  watch  the 
ceaseless  to-and-fro  patrolling  of  these  great  vessels. 
We  came  upon  them  suddenly.  At  dawn  it  was, 
when  a  warm  Mediterranean  mist  was  rising  and 
separating  into  islets  and  fog-banks,  each  appar- 
ently solid  as  a  glacier,  yet  when  our  ship  struck  one, 
streaming  harmlessly  past  us  in  wisps  as  fine  as 
carded  wool. 

Between  these  glided  the  battleships,  protecting 
a  mass  of  shipping  which  lay  black  along  the  coast 
of  the  Holy  Land  from  Smyrna  to  Egypt.  So  many 
sail  had  not  been  seen  there  since  the  world  began. 
Those  officers  who  boarded  us  wore  the  ordinary 
signs  of  naval  rank — save  that,  like  their  ships,  they 
were  dressed  in  white  summer  uniforms.  We  had 
shown  English  mercantile  colours,  and  the  boarding 
officers  addressed  us  in  English. 

They  were  our  countrymen  without  a  doubt.  But 
there  was  something  strange  and  new  about  them 
too,  something  unwontedly  gracious  and  kindly. 
Never  men-of-war  officers  had  looked  or  spoken  like 
these. 

223 


iJJ^l.       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

We  asked  them  questions.  They  only  shook  their 
heads,  smiling  at  our  ignorance — yet  we  had  been 
at  the  very  beginning  of  these  things.  We  were 
plants  of  the  first  sowing. 

"If  your  papers  are  in  order,  you  will  soon  know 
all  that  we  know  and  more!"  they  said.  And  surely 
enough  our  papers  were  in  order.  The  men  who  had 
once  been  English  oflBcers  touched  their  caps  at 
sight  of  our  mandate. 

"Yes,"  they  said,  "we  have  seen  Him.  We  too 
are  his  servants!" 

"In  what  way  do  you  serve?"  I  asked,  for  I  knew 
they  could  only  mean  the  White  Pope,  the  strange 
Power  which  now  moved  at  the  back  of  all  these 
things,  though  I  had  seen  him  poor,  in  danger,  and 
wet  to  the  skin  with  the  morning  dew. 

"We  do  his  bidding,"  they  said.  "As  we  are 
commanded,  so  we  do.  We  are  his  hands  and  his 
feet.    Eyes  he  does  not  need." 

And  when  I  would  have  asked  still  more,  they 
said  that  of  their  own  service  they  could  say  noth- 
ing, but  by  lifting  our  eyes  to  the  hills  we  would 
see  before  us  the  miracle  of  a  barren  land  made  to 
blossom  like  the  rose. 

We  were  landed  at  Jaffa.  But  not  the  Jaffa  I 
had  known  in  previous  pilgrimages.  The  slim  and 
casual  green  of  the  few  gardens  had  now  extended 
as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach.  Only  down  by  Ashe- 
lon  was  there  still  the  trace  of  a  sand-hill,  and  the 
landing  guard  told  us  that  men  from  the  school  of 
forestry  at  Nancy  had  gone  down  there  that  morn- 


THE  NEW  PALESTINE  2525 

ing  to  bind  the  dunes  with  their  ropes,  to  plant  wiry- 
grasses,  and  with  canes  and  quick-growing  trees  to 
spread  the  garden  over  all  the  plain  of  the  Philis- 
tines even  to  the  River  of  Egypt. 

Jaifa  itself  was  a  great  sight.  Docks  had  been 
made  or  were  in  the  making.  A  huge  breakwater 
was  curving  out  to  contain  all.  Innumerable  puffs 
of  steam  arose,  and  the  broad  piers  were  noisy  with 
the  clank  of  wagons,  and  the  dull  thud  of  buffers. 
There  was  nothing  spiritual  in  this,  but  when  we 
landed,  we  soon  became  aware  that  close  behind  the 
spiritual  moved.  The  greater  part  of  the  wagons 
on  the  quays  were  filled  with  earth — yes,  plain  rich 
soil,  brought  thither  by  that  myriad  of  ships,  and 
unladen  by  elevators  and  endless  hoists  as  if  it  had 
been  the  precious  grain  which  is  the  food  of  men. 

Behind  Jaffa,  where  the  barren  grey  limestone  had 
been  broken  into  chasms  and  splintered  cliffs,  up 
which,  in  my  time,  the  single  mule-path  had  wound 
perilously,  orchards  and  forests  had  already  begun 
to  show  a  feathery  green,  through  which  the  last 
grey  rocks  shone  bald  at  rare  intervals. 

We  took  train  at  the  great  and  busy  station.  We 
could  see  a  network  of  light  railways,  such  as  the 
Russians  had  used  in  their  sieges  and  Manchurian 
encampments,  spreading  away  in  every  direction. 
The  wagons  of  soil  were  being  ceaselessly  directed 
towards  the  wall  of  mountains  on  the  easternmost 
verge  of  which  stands  Jerusalem. 

There  was  none  of  the  usual  bustle  among  the 
personnel  of  the  great  station.    All  wrought  ae  men 


226       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  ^HE  EAST 

work  for  love.  There  was  little  need  of  supervision 
— an  occasional  word  of  direction,  that  was  all. 
After  the  train  started,  we  could  scarce  tear  our- 
selves from  the  window,  that  is,  Mary  Orloff  and  I. 
For  we  two  had  seen  the  aforetime  nakedness  of 
the  land.  The  others  took  the  matter  more  calmly, 
though  at  the  stopping  places  they  spoke  eagerly 
enough  with  the  gangs  of  labourers  busy  there. 

Wild  and  rocky  glens,  like  many  of  my  own  on 
the  Cargill  Water,  were  now  terraced,  walled,  and 
planted.  We  could  see  men  working  high  above  us, 
among  crags  tufted  with  the  dark  green  of  young 
pine,  and  the  grey  of  olive  and  sycamore.  Lower 
down  others  were  planting  and  staying  palms,  while 
a  half-naked  Arab  of  the  desert  stood  on  a  culvert 
coping,  leaning  on  his  long  spear  and  watching  the 
end  of  the  old  and  the  beginning  of  the  new. 

I  wondered  how  long  it  would  be  before  the  Mas- 
ter's spell  should  be  cast  on  him  also,  and  that  spear 
become  a  pruning  hook.  On  every  high  rock  they 
were  mounting  the  water  installations,  which  in  a 
little  were  to  irrigate  the  wheat-fields  and  vineyards 
and  olive-yards  of  a  transformed  Palestine. 

The  money  of  the  world  had  still  a  value  and 
was  spent  like  water  in  those  days.  For  all  had  not 
yet  learned  to  obey  the  higher  law,  and  till  then, 
the  new  Kingdom  of  Peace  had  to  pay  its  way. 

Then  we  came  in  sight  of  Jerusalem.  Only  the 
flaming  blue  of  the  sky  behind  us  was  still  the 
same.  For  lo!  we  stood  up  and  saw  a  city  framed 
in  greenery,  where  formerly  not  a  tree  had  been 


THE  NEW  PALESTINE  227 

visible.  It  had  become  a  city  of  palaces.  Where 
the  desolate  top  of  Mount  Zion  had  been  pared  off 
to  make  the  external  cemeteries,  a  vast  building  of 
marble  shone,  pure  and  simple  in  its  fonn,  but  colon- 
naded like  a  Greek  temple.  Yet  it  was  no  temple, 
only  the  dwelling  of  men.  Looking  down  we  could 
see  within  the  flash  of  spraying  fountains,  while 
men,  dressed  in  white,  went  and  came  by  a  hundred 
doors.  Of  the  pinnacled  Mosque  of  Omar  there  re- 
mained no  sign,  nor  could  I  even  distinguish  the 
grey  crumbling  ruins  of  the  Church  of  the  Holy 
Sepulchre.  White  marble  was  everywhere,  new  and 
fresh.  There  were  no  dwellings  of  the  wealthy,  so 
far  as  I  could  make  out,  but  everywhere  houses 
built  like  caravanserai,  each  with  rows  of  habitable 
chambers  about,  all  of  them  opening  on  a  central 
court  in  which  were  fountains  and  gardens. 

Where  the  Temple  of  Solomon  had  [stood  on 
Mount  Moriah,  there  were  gardens  where  children 
played — the  children  of  those  who  waited  on  the 
Servants  of  the  Servant. 

There  was  no  equality  in  this  new  state.  Every 
message  came  from  On  High.  Far  over  seas  every 
day  some  great  one  disappeared  from  his  accus- 
tomed haunting-places.  His  desk  stood  empty  in 
the  Government  oflSces.  Here  was  a  nation  with 
the  Commander-in-Chief's  horse  held  ready  to 
mount  on  the  mom  of  the  review.  But  no  Com- 
mander-in-Chief! 

Only  in  the  white  buildings  on  Mount  Zion,  em- 
bedded in  greenery,  another  pair  of  delicately  shad- 


228       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

owed  chambers  would  be  occupied.  One  more  white 
robe  would  be  donned,  another  chair  filled  at  the 
council  table.  For  the  rest,  each  obeyed.  They  did 
the  thing  they  were  bidden. 

What  seemed  strange  to  me — and  yet  stranger  to 
General  Cipriano — was  that  upon  the  Mount  of 
Olives,  we  made  out  the  grim  lines  and  obtuse  angles 
of  a  fortress,  a  smoothed  green  glacis,  the  emplace- 
ments for  the  concealed  artillery,  and  stronger, 
rawer,  and  more  patent  (because  not  yet  covered 
over  with  vegetable  growths)  was  the  great  fort  on 
Mount  Scopas  overlooking  the  city. 

The  General  smiled  warily. 

'Thank  God,"  he  said,  "there  is  still  need  for 
such  as  I,  even  in  the  City  of  Pea«e." 

And  I  am  sure  he  sighed  with  a  sigh  of  relief  to 
find  that  his  day  of  professional  usefuhiess  was  not 
yet  ended. 


CHAPTER  XXVII:  THE  SERVANTS  OF 
"THE  SERVANT" 

It  is  not  likely  that  I  shall  ever  forget  the  first 
visit  to  the  Council  House.  Only  Mary  Orloff  and 
I  had  gone  thither.  Cipriano  and  the  others  were 
directed  to  their  lodgings  in  the  new  military  con- 
structions, and  I  could  see  the  General  straighten 
himself  up  with  something  of  his  old  pride  as  he 
passed  under  the  gateway  of  Scopas  and  his  ear 
caught  the  ordered  tramp  of  soldiery  within.  The 
dull  eye  of  Vergas  gleamed,  and  Zini  smiled  as  he 
appointed  himself  a  sergeant  at  least  in  the  guards 
of  the  White  Council. 

There  was,  of  course,  no  need  of  any  such  within 
the  walls.  For  the  New  Jerusalem  was  a  city  with- 
out crime,  without  police,  without  a  temple,  or  any 
visible  worship.  But  there  was  a  White  Council, 
gathered  from  all  the  world  by  Him  whom  they 
now  called  by  no  other  name  but  "The  Servant" — 
not  "The  White  Pope"  any  more. 

High  on  the  summit  of  Moriah,  its  base  nestled 
in  gardens  already  rich  in  flower,  stood  the  great 
Marconi  installation  by  which  the  decisions  of  the 
Council  were  flashed  to  the  waiting  nations. 

Some  of  the  old  kings  and  constitutions  remained, 
doing  as  they  were  bidden  chiefly,  daily  growing 

229 


230       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

fewer  as  this  one  of  their  council  disappeared,  or 
that  other  irreconcilable  suddenly  quavered  in  mid- 
denunciation,  halted  a  moment,  stammered,  and 
then  stood  clawing  the  air,  tongue-tied  as  Saul  on 
the  road  to  Damascus. 

•  Next  morning  the  White  Pope  received  me.  In 
private  he  had  already  seen  the  woman,  Mary  Or- 
loff.  She  had  fallen  at  his  feet,  and  he  had  blessed 
her.  Then  he  had  raised  her  up,  and  talked  with 
her  awhile  of  the  old  days  when  she  had  carried 
him  on  her  back  across  the  hard  limestone  and 
thorn-strewn  wilderness  of  the  Zion  which  was  under 
their  feet. 

For  me,  I  had  stayed  all  night  in  the  Via  Dolorosa, 
the  only  part  of  the  ancient  city  yet  remaining.  But 
Italian  and  Spanish  workmen,  dii^ected  by  English 
architects,  were  already  busy  at  one  end,  and  the 
very  house  where  I  slept  the  night  would  doubtless 
be  overtaken  and  destroyed  in  a  few  hours. 

It  was  moonlight,  or  rather  ought  to  have  been, 
according  to  the  almanack.  But  that  night,  from 
the  roof  of  one  of  the  last  dwellings  of  the  Jerusalem 
which  had  been,  I  looked  over  the  battlements,  or, 
as  I  reclined,  peered  through  the  rounded  hollow 
tiles  that  had  served  as  spy-holes  for  many  thousand 
years,  the  "women-on-the-house-tops." 

Then  a  wonderful  thing  caught  my  attention. 

A  subdued  silvery  haze  hung  over  Mount  Zion 
like  an  inverted  bowl  of  silver  light.  Every  detail 
of  that  strong  simple  architecture  stood  out,  shadow- 


SERVANTS  OF  "THE  SERVANT"        231 

less,  fair,  and  I  had  almost  said,  self-luminous.  For 
I  saw  no  moon. 

It  was  the  same  during  the  day — that  is,  after  the 
Council  Hall  was  finished.  The  brilliant  sky  of 
Judea  was  overhead.  But  with  the  coming  of  the 
Servant,  and  of  the  new  city  built  with  white  stone, 
the  arid  harshness  of  sunlight  had  been  arrested — 
as  it  were,  by  an  invisible  translucent  dome  over 
the  whole  series  of  hills  on  which  stands  the  New 
Jerusalem. 

You  first  became  conscious  of  it  when  you  had 
breasted  the  long  sea-board  table-land,  and  looked 
across  the  Jordan  Valley  to  the  ruddy  wall  of  the 
mountains  of  Moab.  There  was  a  dome-shaped 
haze  between  you  and  them.  Yet  so  thin  was  it 
that  you  could  see  every  blue  nullah  and  purple 
torrent.  But  all  the  same  there  was  a  something. 
Cipriano  said  it  was  like  smokeless  powder,  but 
rather  to  me  it  seemed  like  one  great  pearl,  so  clear 
as  almost  to  be  transparent,  yet  domed  and  viewless 
as  the  air. 

But  when  you  passed  beneath  it  all  was  changed. 
The  sun  was  in  the  heaven,  but  a  mild  radiance 
was  all  that  struck  upon  you.  More  strange  still — 
every  comer  of  the  darkest  room  was  filled  with 
that  radiance.  The  air  had  become  a  luminous  me- 
dium, and  on  the  hottest  day  you  breathed  it  with- 
out exhilaration,  yet  with  a  clean,  cool  wholesome 
pleasure,  as  if  it  would  serve  you  to  all  eternity. 

Thus  the  city  had  no  need  of  the  sun  or  the  moon 
to  lighten  it,  but  from  the  dwelling  of  the  Servant, 


232       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

once  the  White  Pope,  there  came  the  stillness  of 
radiance,  the  glow  of  peace.  Outside,  however, 
above  the  fortress  of  Olivet  and  Quarantania,  Cip- 
riano  told  me  that  the  glow  stopped.  There  the  sun 
shone  with  its  ancient  fierceness,  or  dropped  with  its 
old  suddenness  to  give  place  according  to  its  season 
to  the  moon's  golden  shield  or  silver  crescent. 

"Lucas!"  called  out  the  White  Pope,  summoning 
me  to  penetrate  into  his  chamber  early  next  morn- 
ing. As  usual  all  within  was  plain  and  clean,  and 
through  an  open  door  I  could  see  his  mother  moving 
silently  about  in  the  small  bed-chamber.  I  would 
have  kneeled,  but  he  stayed  me  with  a  movement 
of  his  hand — gracious,  yet  against  which  I  could  do 
nothing. 

"I  am  glad  of  you,"  he  said,  gently,  "I  will  that 
you  stay  with  me  always.  You  were  the  first.  It  is 
meet  you  should  also  be  the  last." 

"I  ask  nothing  better,  my  Master,"  I  said,  "I 
shall  never  leave  you  by  my  will." 

"I  am  sending  them  from  me  every  day,"  he  said, 
smiling  upon  me,  "they  go  to  the  ends  of  the  earth. 
In  some  lands  they  bear  rule.  In  others  they  beg. 
But  you  who  were  with  me  first  on  the  Trasteveran, 
must  stay  by  me,  and  be  of  my  Council — one  of  the 
Servants  of  a  Servant." 

And  he  asked  concerning  the  others,  Cipriano, 
Vergas,  and  Zini.    He  sighed  when  I  had  told  him. 

"Ah,  yes,"  he  said,  "those  dull  earth  heaps  yon- 
der, and  mouths  that  may  spout  death — the  White 
Fleet  you  passed  through !    They  are  necessary 


SERVANTS  OF  "THE  SERVANT"       233 

for  a  moment.  There  are  lawless  folk  yet  upon  the 
earth.  We  must  make  ourselves  strong  while  we 
are  making  the  Evil  weak.  We  must  write  the  de- 
crees of  Peace  with  an  iron  pen.  Afterwards  (he 
lifted  up  his  arms  with  a  great  gesture  of  blessing) 
there  shall  be  no  need !  Armies,  navies,  police,  they 
shall  have  passed  away,  becom.e  forgotten  and  ob- 
solete as  chain  mail — their  very  organization  a  lost 
art!  But  in  the  meantime,  and  till  the  Fulness  of 
the  Glory,  we  have  need  of  them.  But  come  to  the 
Council  and  take  the  seat  which  has  long  been  wait- 
ing for  you.  You  shall  be  First  Servant  of  the  Ser- 
vant of  God." 

"But  there  are  greater  than  I!"  I  stammered, 
thinking  of  the  King,  of  our  own  Commander-in- 
Chief,  of  the  ex-President  of  the  American  Re- 
public. 

He  looked  at  me  gently,  and  as  it  were  pitying 
my  ignorance. 

"With  us,"  he  said,  "there  is  no  first  and  no  last 
among  those  who  serve.  There  is  but  One  who 
bears  rule  above  all,  and  He  is  neither  you  nor  I! 
But  come,  they  wait — the  Servants  of  the  Servant 
must  be  at  their  post!" 

We  entered  a  wide  place,  the  dome  flat  and  low, 
sweeping  up  to  an  opening  in  the  centre,  circular 
also,  through  which,  but  for  the  translucent  haze, 
you  might  have  seen  the  blue  sky  by  day  or  the 
mighty  host  of  heaven  by  night. 

All  within  was  light,  subdued,  but  pervading. 
And  in  the  centre  was  a  table,  marble  also,  but 


234       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

covered  as  it  were  with  mother-of-pearl.  There 
were  twelve  chairs  besides  that  of  the  White  Pope, 
all  in  simple  white  wood,  but  very  solid. 

About  us  was  nothing  but  cool  space — smooth 
marble  walls,  open  opalescent  emptiness  above,  the 
mild  down-shining  of  the  light,  and  in  each  of  the 
chairs  a  man — that  is,  in  all  but  two,  and  these  two 
at  the  upper  end. 

We  stood  a  moment  on  the  threshold.  The  men 
in  white  were  at  a  long  distance  from  us  and  con- 
ferred in  low  tones.  Some  had  world-famous  faces. 
Three  or  four  I  knew,  the  great  President,  our  latest 
ally,  who  from  New  York  port  had  worked  his  pas- 
sage out  as  a  common  sailor.  He  was  our  last  re- 
cruit. The  King  sat  at  the  left  hand  of  the  slightly- 
raised  chair  in  which  the  White  Pope  would  sit. 
Then  a  little  farther  down  my  eye  rested  on  Lord 
Cairo,  his  long  moustache  curiously  black  against 
the  white  robe,  his  face  grim  at  Terni's  looking  for- 
ward into  futurity — or  perhaps  back  to  the  time 
when,  under  this  very  Hill  of  Zion,  as  a  young  lieu- 
tenant of  Engineers  he  crept  and  dug  and  measured 
amid  the  debris  of  twenty  centuries. 

Now  all  had  indeed  become  new,  and  the  in- 
scriptions he  had  then  found  seemed  as  nothing  to 
those  he  was  now  writing.  Next  to  him  sat  one 
who  in  India  had  been  so  holy,  that  merely  to  have 
his  shadow  fall  upon  them  cured  the  sick  and  worked 
miracles,  in  the  belief  of  two  hundred  million  human 
beings.  Then  came  a  Scottish  shepherd  with  the 
forehead  broad  and  high,  a  London  doctor,  a  great 


SERVANTS  OF  "THE  SERVANT"       235 

preacher,  shaking  hoary  locks  like  Moses  upon  Pis- 
gah  after  forty  years  in  the  wilderness,  a  German 
labour-leader,  a  French  scientist,  an  American  ex- 
President,  a  Jewish  banker,  and  a  young  fellow  with 
candid  eyes,  fresh  from  college,  the  blood  mounting 
to  his  cheeks  to  find  himself  among  such  company. 

"Our  Council  as  it  is  now,"  said  the  White  Pope, 
looking  down  upon  the  seated  men  as  from  a  height. 

"As  it  is  now!"  I  said ;  "does  it  then  change?" 

"It  is  always  changing,"  he  answered.  "There 
are  others  who  are  called  in  to  advise.  They  dwell 
like  you,  like  all  of  us,  in  the  ranges  of  chambers 
out  yonder.  When  their  time  is  come,  they  will  de- 
part— when  they  have  learned  their  lesson — when 
the  light  has  come  upon  their  faces,  and  the  word 
is  ripe  upon  their  lips." 

And  indeed  as  we  joined  the  Council,  it  seemed  to 
me  that  there  was  a  glow  upon  all  their  faces.  I 
wondered  if  ever  I  sliould  look  like  these  men.  The 
White  Pope  introduced  me,  and  indicated  my  place. 

"I  am  not  worthy,"  I  said,  "let  me  rather  be  of 
those  who  abide  without  and  obey.  There  are  many 
wiser  than  I." 

"You  were  my  first  believer,  my  earliest  helper," 
said  the  White  Pope,  "your  place  is  here!" 

And  he  indicated  the  vacant  chair  next  his  at  the 
Council  table  with  a  gesture  that  brooked  no  dis- 
obedience. 

The  question  undea*  discussion  concerned  the  poor 
of  great  cities,  the  declassed,  the  criminals.  The 
matter  had  evidently  been  debated  before.     Some 


236       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

had  been  already  deported.  Now  they  were  to  be 
divided  into  categories — to  be  visited  in  their  reser- 
vations by  the  ambassadors  of  the  Servant.  The 
finally  impenitent  were  to  be  guarded  separately 
where  they  would  have  no  chance  of  reproducing 
their  kind.  The  others  in  time  would  make  good 
servants,  and  so  obtain  complete  citizenship  in  the 
Kingdom  of  Peace.  The  White  Pope  himself  would 
visit  them.  He  would  draw  them,  though  even  he 
would  not  compel  them.  Till  then,  there  was  nee<:l 
of  a  great  administrator  to  divide,  to  settle,  and  to 
govern. 

The  question  now  debated  was  who  should  go. 

And  I  was  surprised  when  the  mild  eyes  of  the 
White  Pope  fell  upon  the  late  Commander-in-Chief. 

"This  is  your  work!"  he  said,  smiling.  "The  ships 
are  at  your  disposition  and  power  is  given.  Be 
not  lacking,  my  brother!" 

The  face  which  had  once  been  grim,  retained  of 
that  military  training  only  a  certain  stem  joy  in 
obedience.  He  knew  that  in  all  probability  he  would 
never  sit  at  that  council  table  again.  But  to  watch 
over  the  Disappearing  of  Evil  from  the  earth — that 
also  was  surely  a  great  work!  To  note  the  dregs 
growing  less  and  less  each  year,  as  the  old  died  off, 
or  yielded  to  the  influence  of  the  Good  of  the 
World,  at  last  come  to  its  own.  He  rose  and  saluted. 
I  think  he  would  have  strode  forth  without  a  word, 
being  accustomed  to  carry  out  orders.  But  the  White 
Pope  rose  before  him  at  the  table-head,  a  frail, 
tremulous,   slender  figure.     And  Lord   Cairo   was 


SERVANTS  OF  "THE  SERVANT"        237 

stayed.  He  bowed  his  haughty  head  and  erect  body 
while  the  Servant's  hands  were  laid  on  his  shoulder. 
He  would  have  knelt  but  could  not,  even  as  so  lately 
I.  The  White  Pope  laid  a  kiss  of  blessing  on  his 
brow  and  murmured  a  private  message  in  his  ear. 
The  tall  straight  soldier  erected  himself,  saluted  his 
brethren  of  the  Council,  and  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII:     THE  LAST  MARTYR 
OF   THE   SERVANT 

I  NEED  not — indeed  I  am  not  permitted  to  relate 
day  by  day  all  the  decisions  of  the  solemn  Council 
of  the  Twelve.  Each  day  there  came  some  new 
thing.  Sometimes  at  first,  a  disaster — for  the  King- 
dom of  Peace  did  not  triumph  without  its  Arma- 
geddon— indeed  many  Armageddons. 

The  older  Latin  countries  were  the  most  difficult. 
The  division  there  had  run  deep.  The  clericals 
would  not  believe — the  others  dared  not. 

One  day  there  came  a  woman  flying  hot-foot  from 
Italy — passed  on  to  us  through  the  White  Fleet,  the 
daughter  of  Leo  Perrone  and  his  wife  Maria.  The 
forgiven  Manslayer  had  preached  the  evangel 
through  all  the  South,  while  his  wife  and  daughter 
had  remained  at  home,  guarding  the  lights,  and 
keeping  the  beacon  trimmed  upon  the  Tremiti  to 
guide  the  by-going  ships. 

But  on  the  hill  of  Monte  Pulchiano  a  crowd  of 
the  ignorant  had  beset  Leo.  They  had  grievously 
wounded  him  with  stones,  and  had  left  him  to  die 
in  the  open  square  of  the  market-place,  where  he 
remained  three  days  and  four  nights.  On  the  fourth 
day  at  evening  Maria  his  wife  came  to  him.  She 
laid  his  wounded  head  in  her  lap. 

238 


THE  LAST  MARTYR  239 

"So  my  mother  abode  all  night,"  continued  Mar- 
gherita,  "sitting  with  the  battered  head  on  her 
knees.  He  had  fought  hard  for  his  life,  that  he 
might  continue  his  mission.  He  was  called  'the 
Strong  Man  Leo' — you  remember,  General?" 

And  General  Cipriano  bowed  his  head. 

"I  have  good  cause  to  remember,"  he  said.  "I 
shall  not  forget  the  prison  of  Atrani." 

"Go  on,  little  daughter,"  said  the  White  Pope, 
"tell  me  what  befel  Leo  the  lighthouse  keeper  and 
his  wife." 

"It  was  in  the  market-place,"  said  Margherita^ 
"tall  houses  about,  and  towers  on  the  wall — many 
windows  also  from  which  the  cruel  ignorant  people 
looked  down.  There  are  no  stars  here  in  Jerusalem. 
I  looked  in  vain  for  them  last  night.  But  there  were 
many  in  the  market-place  of  Monte  Pulchiano,  look- 
ing down  on  the  last  night  that  my  father  and 
mother  should  spend  together " 

"On  this  earth!"  interposed  the  gentle  voice  of 
the  Servant. 

"On  this  earth — it  is  all  I  know,"  said  Margherita. 

"I  will  teach  you  better,"  he  said,  softly,  "but 
tell  on." 

"And  as  the  stars  looked  down  on  the  man  they 
had  stoned  and  left  for  dead,  Leo  my  father,  being 
only  half  conscious,  spake  out  of  the  crusted  black- 
ness of  his  wounds — ah,  once  it  had  been  the  noblest 
face  in  Italy.  To  my  mother  it  was  so  still !  When 
she  returned  she  declared  it." 


240       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

"And  what  said  your  father?"  asked  the  White 
Pope  in  a  voice  hke  running  water. 

"He  said  there  in  the  darkness  that  though  the 
New  Law  had  come  and  he  kept  it  in  his  heart,  yet 
so  far  as  punishment  was  concerned  the  Old  Law 
held  good.  He  was  now  even  as  he  had  made  Gio- 
vanni Lupo! 

"But  my  mother,  understanding  more  clearly,  re- 
buked him.  The  prison  was  broken,  she  said.  He 
had  seen  the  Servant!  All  was  fulfilled,  and  doubt- 
less from  the  Hell  where  such  as  he  had  grovelled, 
even  Giovanni  Lupo,  all  the  beasts  burned  out  of 
him,  was  even  now  escalading  the  ramparts  of 
Heaven!" 

The  White  Pope  nodded,  still  gently. 

"Woman  enters  not  into  our  councils,  because 
these  are  of  the  head.  But  for  matters  of  the  heart, 
the  woman  knows.  She  is  with  us — or  rather  she 
goes  before.  Your  mother  Maria  was  of  the  best, 
where  all  are  good.  Yea,  even  the  worst — though 
man  hath  long-time  shut  them  in  his  stye,  have  not 
quite  lost  their  first  estate.  The  heathen  knew  no 
better  than  to  make  their  Circe  a  woman.  Such  is 
for  those  who  see  only  on  the  surface.  All  women 
are  naturally  of  the  Kingdom,  though  for  the  mo- 
ment, men  and  things  have  made  some  of  them  as 
the  beasts!    But  you  do  not  understand." 

"Yes,"  said  the  daughter  of  the  Perrone,  "at  least 
my  mother  saw  clearly.  It  was  her  gift.  But  she 
could  not  move  my  father. 

"  T  am  forgiven,'  he  said,  'the  White  Pope  has 


THE  LAST  MARTYR  Ml 

said  it.  He  cannot  lie ! '  And  from  the  angle  of  the 
Presbytery  there  hurtled  down  a  great  stone  torn 
from  the  coping. 

"  'Why  do  you  groan,  my  wife  Maria?'  asked  my 
father.  And  my  mother  answered  that  it  was  for 
sorrow. 

"  'Aye/  said  my  father,  not  knowing  that  she  was 
sore  stricken,  'you  have  ever  sorrowed  for  me  too 
much  and  thought  too  little  of  the  guilt.  Think  of 
your  own  soul,  Maria  Perrone,  and  not  of  this  poor 
vile  body  of  mine  that  must  soon  pass  into  clay!' " 

"That  was  like  a  man,"  murmured  the  White 
Pope.  He  knew  not  how  the  woman  had  long  ago 
saved  her  soul — when,  that  her  husband  might  go 
free,  she  swore  to  a  lie,  in  the  courthouse  at  Atrani. 

"But  Leo,  my  father,  lived  till  the  morning,  and 
in  the  morning  there  came  a  great  marvel  to  Monte 
Pulchiano — a  man  in  the  scarlet  of  the  cardinalate 
with  a  suite  behind  him,  riding  slowly  on  a  white 
mule  through  the  town.  He  was  going  to  Cortona, 
where  he  had  a  property.  And  though  Leo  and 
Maria,  my  parents,  knew  it  not,  this  was  Salviati, 
the  chief  of  the  Cardinals  at  Rome. 

"And  as  he  rode  past  in  the  young  day,  he  halted, 
and  demanded  of  Maria  Perrone  who  this  man  was 
and  what  he  had  done  to  be  treated  so. 

"'He  will  answer  for  himself,  Excellency!'  said 
my  mother  who  feared  no  one.  'He  has  been  lying 
thus  four  nights  and  three  days.  He  is  my  husband 
and  a  brave  man.' 

"Then  Salviati,  the  chief  cardinal,  and  the  wisest 


242        THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

of  all  who  are  left  in  Rome,  demanded  of  my  father 
who  he  was. 

"  'Halt!'  said  my  father,  raising  himself  half  from 
the  ground  as  if  he  had  been  Saint  Stephen  after 
his  stoning.  It  was  a  plain  miracle  how  he  held 
himself  even  so  long.  'Halt  and  hearken,  priest — I 
am  an  ignorant  man  and  poor.  Also  I  am  Leo  the 
Manslayer.  Yet  for  the  Servant  of  Servants  I  die. 
But  first  I  bid  you  turn  your  beast  about  and  go  to 
the  College  of  the  Cardinals  at  Rome.  Bid  them 
go  forth  and  preach  the  gospel  of  the  man  they  made 
Pope.' 

"  'But  how  shall  they  know  it?'  cried  Salviati,  be- 
wildered. He  had  already  turned  as  if  to  obey  the 
words  of  the  dying  man. 

"  'Let  them  go  to  Jerusalem  and  receive  instruc- 
tion!' said  my  father.  'Go — I  beseech  you  make 
haste,  for  the  evil  men  come  again.' 

"And  even  as  he  was  bidden,  the  Cardinal  Salviati 
went  out  of  Monte  Pulchiano  by  the  way  he  came, 
by  the  gate  which  looks  toward  Rome.  And  the  men 
of  the  town,  ignorant  rather  than  evil,  issued  forth 
like  wasps  and  quickly  made  an  end  of  Leo,  my 
father." 

"The  last  Martyr!"  said  the  White  Pope,  and 
raising  his  hand  in  the  air  he  made  the  gesture  of 
blessing. 

"And  your  mother?"  murmured  the  White  Pope. 

"She  returned  to  the  Tremiti,"  said  Margherita, 
"after  she  had  buried  my  father.  You  see,  Holy 
Pather,  I  had  been  keeping  the  beacon  alight.    Now 


THE  LAST  MARTYR  243 

I,  being  the  stronger,  came  hither,  while  she  abides 
to  do  the  duty  which  was  once  my  father's." 

There  came  one  to  the  door  who  stood  with  a 
flimsy  message  in  his  hand. 

"The  Servant  who  commands  the  White  Fleet  re- 
ports that  the  recalcitrant  Cardinals  of  Rome  are 
in  waiting  outside  the  lines.  They  beg  to  see  the 
White  Pope." 

"If  they  come  as  Servants  of  the  Servant,"  said 
the  White  Pope,  quietly,  "admit  them!" 

It  must  have  been  a  moment  of  utmost  triumph 
for  him,  for  these  were  they  who  would  not  submit 
even  for  Terni.  Yet  he  only  bowed  his  gentle  head 
the  lower,  and  dismissed  Margherita  with  a  word  of 
blessing. 

"Cargill,"  he  said,  "see  that  she  is  put  on  a  vessel 
and  sent  back  to  her  mother,  swiftly  and  suitably." 

No  one  ever  ventured  to  discuss  a  command  of  the 
White  Pope.  Indeed  he  never  gave  us  a  chance, 
passing  to  the  next  matter  without  a  pause,  and  as 
if  dismissing  the  former  from  his  mind. 

"And  the  dissident  Cardinals?"  said  General  Cip- 
riano,  who  did  not  love  them.  He  had  been  with 
the  Red  Shirts  and  with  them  had  learned  the  ac- 
tualities of  war. 

"Let  them  be  admitted,"  said  the  White  Pope,  "it 
is  time  they  paid  their  second  homage.  This  one  is 
tardy-footed  but  real,  if  the  first  was  somewhat 
brief!" 

His  mind,  apparently,  kept  no  record  of  all  they 
had  done  against  him — the  hunting  as  for  his  life, 


244.       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

the  blood  shed  on  the  Trasteverari,  the  rejection  at 
Marseilles,  the  relapse  after  the  scene  in  the  Ro- 
tunda of  the  Curia.  They  had  been  rebels  but  now 
they  were  friends.  And  he  gave  himself  no  more 
concern  about  these  princes  of  the  church  than  if 
they  had  been  so  many  Italian  workmen  for  the 
Dead  Sea  light-railways,  or  for  the  water  extension 
of  that  lake  towards  Akabah,  which  was  just  now 
taking  shape  under  the  hands  of  his  engineers. 

Nevertheless  the  submission  of  the  recalcitrant 
Cardinalate  of  Rome  was  a  wonderful  sight,  though 
it  seemed  as  if  I  alone  of  the  Council  looked  upon  it 
in  that  light.  Only  a  priest  of  the  Greek  church,  re- 
cently added,  seemed  moved  at  all,  and  I  think  it 
was  more  their  dignity  and  splendour  which  dazzled 
him,  fresh  from  the  grey  Volga  plains. 

What  they  had  seen  outside  had  already  taken 
effect  upon  the  men  of  the  red  robe.  They  had 
passed  through  the  ceaseless  beat  of  the  scouts  of 
the  White  Fleet.  They  had  been  arrested,  held  for 
days  in  suspense,  and  then  at  the  word  of  their  out- 
cast Pope,  handed  on  from  squadron  to  squadron  of 
waiting  battleships. 

Temporal  Power!  The  fiction  of  it  had  long  time 
troubled  their  heads,  but  this  man  had  the  reality. 
These  were  exceedingly  humble  men  who  entered 
the  white  marble  spaces  of  the  Council  Hall  on 
Mount  Zion. 

They  had  seen.  Their  eyes  had  taken  in  the  mar- 
vel of  that  power.  Indeed,  a  certain  curious  pride 
had  grown  up  within  them.    After  all,  this  man  was 


THE  LAST  MARTYR  245 

one  of  them — trained  in  their  fold,  made  Pope  by 
their  hands.  He  had  succeeded.  They  had  failed. 
Only  Salviati  had  received  the  word  at  second-hand 
from  Leo  Perrone — they  from  Salviati.  Neverthe- 
less they  had  come  at  his  bidding.  They  saw  that 
the  New  World  was  with  their  Pope  whom  they  had 
made — by  un-making  him.  If  they  were  not  to  be 
overpowered  beneath  the  ruins  of  the  old,  they  must 
come  to  do  obeisance.    So  they  had  come  to  do  it. 

They  met  messengers  speeding  north  and  south, 
east  and  west — upon  swift  steamers  all  white  and 
bearing  the  white  ensign.  They  came  in  much  trepi- 
dation to  another  Jerusalem — not  a  place  of  pil- 
grimages and  stamped  wood,  but  the  throbbing  heart 
of  the  regenerated  world. 

They  entered  the  hushed  silence  of  the  Hall  of 
Council.  The  twelve  councillors  did  not  cease  their 
labours.  Only  the  White  Pope  himself  rose  to  re- 
ceive their  homage.  They  knelt  before  him.  The 
bowed  and  tonsured  heads  took  reverently  his  bene- 
diction. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "go  and  work  in  my  vineyard." 

"But  what  shall  we  do?"  said  Salviati,  thinking 
doubtless  that  there  be  a  secretariat  even  here. 

"Work!"  said  the  White  Pope,  "there  is  one  at 
the  door  who  will  show  you  the  place  of  your  labour. 
All  things  must  have  a  beginning.  To  the  oldest  and 
feeblest  of  you  strength  shall  be  given." 

And  indeed  there  waited  at  the  door  of  the  white 
council  chamber  a  darkish  man  with  a  slight  beard 


524G       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

of  naval  cut,  whose  face  seemed  to  me  strangely  fa- 
miliar. 

The  Cardinals  gazed  at  him  too.  There  was  in- 
quiry in  the  fixity  of  their  regard. 

"Yes/'  he  said,  anticipating  the  question.  "I  am 
he  who  was  once  Czar  of  all  the  Russias.  I  sum- 
moned two  Peace  congresses,  yet  fought  all  my  life. 
But  here  we  are  at  the  tool-house.  The  day's  work 
is  at  the  farther  end  of  the  valley  of  Hinnom — 
among  the  fruit  trees — an  easy  task.  But  let  us 
make  haste!" 


CHAPTER  XXIX:     THE  CLOUD  RECEIVED 

HIM 

One  by  one  the  remaining  problems  were  solved. 
The  power  which  went  forth  from  Jerusalem,  like 
the  continuous  glow  of  radium,  overcame  even  the 
Polar  snows,  so  that  lands  which  only  Esquimaux 
hunters  had  wandered  over  became  the  granaries  of 
mankind. 

The  new  science  made  the  waste  places  even  as 
Palestine.  The  Sahara,  irrigated  from  a  million  ar- 
tesian wells,  became  as  Sharon.  The  deserts  of 
Central  Asia  blossomed  all  about  the  Roof  of  the 
World,  and  Briton,  Russian  and  Chinaman  looked 
out  on  a  field  of  cloth  of  gold,  flecked  with  amber, 
where  the  wheat  and  the  oats  grew  close  together. 

In  cities  the  slums  had  long  ago  been  swept  away. 
All  the  middlemen  of  the  world  had  been  sent  to 
practise  agriculture  and  live  on  the  labour  of  their 
hands. 

The  rich  and  the  idle  caught  the  infection,  and 
laboured  on  the  ways.  Some,  weary  of  motor-cars 
and  aeroplanes  as  instruments  of  pleasure,  passed 
their  mechanicians'  examinations  and  took  their 
places  joyfully  on  the  railways  or  on  the  White 
Fleet,  now  organised  as  a  great  transport  service. 

So  the  world  became  the  abode  of  happy  busy 

247 


248       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

men.  Parliamenta  and  electoral  devices  became  as 
effete  as  the  manorial  rights  of  pit  and  gallows. 

The  Servant  interpreted  the  will  of  his  Master. 
They  obeyed  because  they  heard  the  answering 
voice  within  their  own  hearts,  ever  more  clear  as 
the  issues  became  simpler.  The  Council  of  the 
Twelve  aided  him.  to  govern  the  redeemed  world. 
All  inhabitants  of  the  planet  became  like  us  in  Jeru- 
salem, the  Servants  of  the  Servant. 

For  a  while  in  holes  and  corners  Evil  lurked 
covertly.  But  everywhere  tracked,  and  remorselessly 
isolated,  it  died  out. 

The  good  and  wise  on  the  Council  died  too,  but 
their  places  were  speedily  filled.  When  a  man  was 
about  to  die,  the  couch  was  strewn  with  flowers,  and 
they  made  for  him  'The  Feast  of  the  New  Life." 
The  fear  had  gone  out  of  death  and  with  it  the  pain. 
This  had  been  the  earliest  of  the  Servant's  gifts  to 
his  people,  through  the  labours  of  the  great  men  of 
science  whom  He  had  filled  with  his  spirit. 

So  the  Fear  of  Death  no  longer  oppressed  the 
earth.  For  when  there  is  no  fear  of  it,  the  Last 
Great  Enemy  has  been  put  under  His  feet. 

As  to  what  lay  beyond,  the  Servant  promised  only 
that  whither  he  went  they  should  follow. 

"I  go  to  my  Father,"  he  said  always  when  they 
questioned  him.    "He  is  yours  also!" 

It  was  noticed  that  he  grew  frailer,  more  bent,  and 
that  his  face  wore  an  ethereal  look,  though  the  smile 
and  the  expression  of  the  eyes  remained  the  same. 
He  abode  long  hours  in  meditation. 


THE  CLOUD  RECEIVED  HIM  S49 

He  went  less  and  less  frequently  to  the  Council, 
Often  for  weeks  he  would  leave  them  to  then*  la- 
bours, save  when  a  question  was  referred  to  him  for 
arbitrage. 

But  on  the  other  hand  he  went  oftener  to  these 
feasts  of  the  New  Life.  And  when  the  giver  of  the 
feast  laid  down  his  pilgrim  staff  and  entered  within 
the  Veil,  the  White  Pope  would  lay  down  his,  and 
spread  roses  or  simple  flowers  upon  the  breast  finally 
at  rest. 

Then  he  would  kiss  the  marble  white  brow. 

"He  is  not  dead  but  sleepeth,"  he  would  quote, 
in  a  voice  so  high  and  clear  that  all  present  knew 
that  the  death  of  the  body  was  nothing.  They  had 
been  af&rming  the  fact  all  their  lives.  They  knew  it 
now. 

With  Lebanon  lying  snow-capped  to  the  north, 
began  the  Last  of  the  Last  Days.  The  White  Pope 
abode  mostly  in  his  own  chamber  now,  all  hung 
about  with  curtains  and  well  warmed  in  winter,  for 
the  cold  can  bite  shrewdly  even  upon  Mount  Zion. 

The  spring  of  the  Final  Year  of  which  I  have  to 
write  opened  with  such  beauty  as  I  have  never  seen. 
The  planted  deserts,  the  vine-clad  hills,  the  opening 
out  of  the  tropical  and  sub-tropical  countries  had 
changed  the  climate.  The  winter  of  the  temperate 
zones  was  now  hardly  marked  and  had  shrunk  to 
the  space  of  a  few  weeks. 

But  this  spring  came  in  with  a  cool  tranquil  glory 
such  as  no  man  had  ever  beheld. 

The  area  of  the  translucent  dome  of  haze  which 


250       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

had  first  crested  Mount  Zion  gradually  extended, 
and  men  were  not  now  astonished  when  in  the 
dawn  they  saw  it  hovering,  as  it  were,  tentatively 
over  their  cities. 

It  was,  as  I  remember,  Easter  Day  in  the  world, 
that  is,  according  to  the  ancient  calendar.  I  had 
gone  out  early  and  set  my  feet  to  the  steep  slopes 
of  the  JNIount  of  Olives  to  be  outside  of  the  dome  of 
haze.  I  wanted  to  drink  the  sunshine  of  that  mem- 
orable morn. 

I  passed  Scopas  and  followed  the  ridge,  noting 
with  wonder  the  great  siege  guns  long  since  flaked 
and  rusted,  and  climbing  the  slopes  of  the  fortifi- 
cations, now  only  stormed  over  by  the  children  of 
this  happier  generation.  I  also  was  growing  old  for 
I  stopped  with  my  hand  on  my  side,  looking  back 
often  to  the  stately  marble  city  from  which  I  had 
come. 

I  passed  Gethsemane.  The  last  of  the  gnarled 
olives  which  had  seen  His  tears  was  gone!  Gone 
too  were  the  monkish  yews  and  cropped  hedges.  All 
was  a  glow  of  peach-blossom  and  tinkled  with  the 
laughter  of  falling  w^ater. 

«  4E-  »  *  «  « 

The  east  was  already  red  when  I  saw  him  come 
up  from  beneath  out  of  the  valley  mist.  Yes — he 
also  had  remembered  that  it  was  the  morning  of 
the  great  feast  of  the  Christ. 

The  Servant  was  clothed  in  his  white  robe,  as 
of  old  I  had  seen  him  come  upon  me  out  of  the 
clouds  that  wrapped  the  Trasteveran.     Only  the 


THE  CLOUD  RECEIVED  HIM  251 

robe  lacked  now  papal  capes.  Why  he  had  laid 
them  aside  I  do  not  know  but  now,  simple,  straight 
and  austere  of  line  it  swept  from  shoulder  to  san- 
dalled feet. 

Behind  him  a  little  way  and  keeping  in  the 
shadow  like  a  dog  fearful  of  being  sent  back,  fol- 
lowed Mary  Orloff — so  old  that  she  had  long  left  off 
the  numbering  of  her  years,  lame,  half-blind,  yet 
full  of  the  unconquerable  love  of  woman. 

As  he  reached  the  bottom  of  the  steep  ascent 
below  the  summit,  and  before  passing  the  broken 
ramparts  of  what  had  been  the  Fortress  of  Olivet, 
the  White  Pope  turned  upon  his  mother,  and  took 
her  kindly  by  the  hand. 

He  led  her  aside  and  found  a  worn  slab  for  her 
to  sit  upon,  old  perhaps  as  when  King  David  went 
that  way  to  escape  his  son  Absalom. 

"Rest!"  he  said,  "your  feet  are  weary.  They  have 
followed  me  far — the  long,  long  way  it  has  been 
yours  and  mine,  my  mother.  You  have  helped  me 
well,  0  my  mother." 

He  stooped  and  kissed  the  wrinkled  cheek,  and 
laid  his  hand  on  the  white  indomitable  head. 

"Farewell,  beloved  mother — our  ways  part,  but 
ere  long  we  shall  meet  again  when  God  wills!" 

The  woman  burst  into  tears.  His  hand  patted  her 
head  gently  and  continuously. 

"A  day  or  two  only,  Mary  Orloff.  The  time  will 
not  be  long.  Cargill,  who  is  my  eldest  son  accord- 
ing to  the  spirit,  will  care  for  you." 


252       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

As  we  went  our  ways,  I  knew  that  the  woman 
had  ceased  weeping  and  was  looking  after  us, 
anxious  not  to  lose  one  moment  of  her  son's 
presence. 

Soon  we  were  fronting  the  naked  sunshine  of  the 
Easter  Morn.  Zion  and  all  the  New  Things  lay 
below  in  their  luminous  cloud. 

He  spoke  as  he  went. 

"Yes,  well-nigh  finished — all!"  he  said,  "the  work 
of  the  Servant  done ! 

"But  now  the  Council  has  no  need  of  me.  It 
has  the  Spirit.  Those  whom  they  call  shall  receive 
it.  Evil  has  perished  from  the  world.  No  longer 
is  God's  kingdom  divided  against  itself.  Death  and 
Fear  are  put  underfoot.  The  Servants  yonder  shall 
be  called  one  by  one,  and  being  called,  they  shall 
go  up  higher.    Your  time,  Lucas,  is  not  yet." 

We  stood  on  the  top  of  Olivet  on  a  little  bare 
space  among  the  mantling  gardens.  A  great  siege- 
gun  lay  on  the  ground  wet  with  the  night  dews.  A 
bird  had  built  her  nest  within  and  flew  in  and  out 
fearlessly.  I  read  the  inscription:  "H.M.S.  Dread- 
nought, 1906." 

On  a  mortar,  over-turned  and  gaping,  were  curi- 
ous embossed  Chinese  inscriptions,  across  which 
some  one  had  scrawled  the  words  in  the  commonest 
red  paint: — "Used  before  Port  Arthur." 

The  old  had  indeed  passed  away.  A  hive  of 
honey  bees  had  built  their  nest  within.  The  White 
Pope  watched  their  ordered  disorder  a  while,  and 


THE  CLOUD  RECEIVED  HIM  253 

then  went  on  to  the  final  peak  which  looks  towards 
Jordan  and  the  mountains  of  Moab. 

The  sun  from  the  east  met  him  fair,  and  for  once 
his  pale  and  hollow  cheek  looked  young  and  ruddy. 
He  stood  a  while  letting  the  good  heat  warm  his 
blood.  Then  turning  slowly  he  stretched  his  hand 
to  the  east  and  to  the  south,  to  the  west  and  to  the 
north. 

The  veil  of  pearly  translucence  over  Jerusalem 
seemed  to  be  spreading  and  thickening.  I  could  see 
it  come  striding  swiftly  towards  us  across  the  val- 
ley. A  moment  more  and  it  had  shut  out  the  red 
morning  sun. 

The  White  Pope  held  out  his  hand  to  me. 

I  knew  it  was  the  End  of  which  he  had  spoken 
and  I  sank  on  my  knees. 

"Ah,  my  Lucas,"  I  heard  his  voice  above  me  as 
of  one  speaking  from  a  great  distance.  "Lucas,  you 
were  the  First — you  shall  be  the  last.  Stay  a  while 
and  tell  them  my  will.  Farewell,  my  true  son. 
Thou  hast  seen  Alpha.  Now  thou  shalt  see  Omega! 
What  thou  hast  seen,  write!" 

He  blessed  me  and  even  as  he  did  so  the  air  was 
filled  with  the  sound  of  many  waters — or  more  ex- 
actly, with  the  beating  of  innumerable  wings.  I 
looked  up. 

The  pearly  light  was  all  about  me,  but — I  was 
alone.  The  White  Pope  was  not,  for  God  had  taken 
Him. 

Then  all  suddenly  I  understood,  and  in  a  strange 


254       THE  LIGHT  OUT  OF  THE  EAST 

passion,  half  of  sorrow,  half  of  a  marvellous  joy,  I 
threw  me  on  the  ground  and  kissed  the  grasses,  now 
rising  slowly  erect  again,  on  which  a  moment  before 
upon  the  summit  of  Olivet  the  feet  of  the  Blessed 
had  stood. 


THE  END 


"•>  nil  mill  II I II 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-32m-8,'58(5876s4)444 


/ 


3  1158  00131    8681 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  365  270    8 


